Sympathy for the Devil
by lalunaticscribe
Summary: The Vampire Black Court is fighting for survival, their kind,one by one, being killed. Holmes is about to discover Watson's secrets, a coin...and a whole new world.Slight Xover with Dresden Files. 1st in The Watson Chronicles
1. A Hunt in the Night

_**Frankly, I ran out of inspiration for my other two fics and I decided that in order to make Iced Chaos more of a detective feel to it, I read Sherlock Holmes. This of course had the unexpected effect of making me wonder what would happen if Holmes were to live in the same world as Harry Dresden, albeit the Victorian nineteenth-century equivalent. I then decided to start on this as hopefully I would be better able to type the next chapters for my other fics as I flesh this out. **_

_**I chose the villain or villains of this piece to be the Vampire Black Court and the setting to be 1898, approximately one year after the publication of Bram Stoker's **_**Dracula.**_** The publication of this book, and thus the exposure of the Black Court's existence to the literate population, albeit in fiction, as well as the Court's general weaknesses, seriously threaten the existence of the Black Court in Britain as other powers such as the White Council (in Edinburgh) and the Faerie Courts (Eriau, better known as Ireland, holding a special significance to them) begin to move in onto them. To better their chances of survival, the last remaining scourge in London decides to gather more power. It orders a Renfield (for those who don't recall, it's produced by crushing with brute psychic force the mind and will of a human for a quick muscular mindless thug with low shelf life) to steal one of thirty Blackened Denarii from the local Catholic church in London so as to use the power of the fallen angel within. The Renfield was violently stopped but the scene was discovered just as the Renfield was beheaded, such that the coin was left at the scene as the warrior-priest fled. Sherlock Holmes was called into the case, but it is Doctor Watson who receives the coin...and all hell breaks loose. **_

* * *

_**I am an amateur author of false name**_

_**I borrow worlds of another's fame**_

_**I stake no claim on recognised locations**_

_**Nor do I own canon situations.**_

_**I merely come to spend a while,**_

_**Reading others' work; writing my own style.**_

_**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**_

_**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**_

_**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**_

_**I mean no infringement; I am friend, not foe.**_

_**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**_

_**I hope, in my work, enjoyment you will find.**_

* * *

_**Sympathy for the Devil**_

_**Being the unsung saga never told by any party mentioned**_

_**Prologue: A Hunt in the Night **_

_London at night is cool, even in the very heat in the heart of summer, the sweltering heat given by an otherwise glaring sun dissipating as parts of London went about under the cover of darkness. A city never sleeps; here in London, the heart of Empire and Country, perhaps even less so. Even then, amid the mustard fog that occasionally drifted through the streets and alleys of the east end, the thumps upon the cobblestones signalled someone running desperately in mortal peril. _

_The unknown mannish figure continued in his mad dash through to a destination unknown to perhaps any other than himself, strange in that he was barely panting, or that he did not even curse or swear or indeed make any sound to indicate otherwise of a sentient being living in that human shell that was currently moving through parts of London where the city's darkness seemed to concentrate the most. In fact, if not for the fact that he, for the figure was indeed male, was moving, one would have been quite inclined to think, from the mindless look in the poor man's eyes, and from the tautness of the tendons in his hands as he gripped onto a small item in those appendages, that he was quite, quite dead. _

_As it were, the first figure was closely followed by another in pursuit. This second figure was in quite a few ways the antithesis of the first; obviously human and alive, with deep brown eyes that were desperate and at the same time kind and pitying. The second man held a sword, a long, thin double-edged affair with a simple, unadorned cross-guard and hilt that was at the same time dignified, and the Roman collar around his neck upon which hung a simple cross announced his faith and occupation, quite a distinction from the sword he was holding as he continued to bear down on the first figure, his voluminous black robe billowing about him much like an avenging angel._

_Quite against his very creed, the second figure drew a gun from within his robes and, pausing only once to aim, fired a single shot that echoed about the stones and cobbles, tearing a gaping wound into the first figure, who collapsed onto the ground, bleeding profusely on the cobblestones, still attempting to drag his body forward to whatever unknown destination he was bound to with the desperation seen only in dying men and men upon pain of death, or possibly the possessed._

"_Rest in peace, lost soul, for your torment will end now. The scourge no longer has any hold over you," the second figure whispered, drawing his sword. The blade glimmered in what little light the occupants of the London night sky gave as it swung down and with a swing, cut cleanly through the man's neck. It was necessary, the executioner thought. Being imbued with the dark powers, this poor soul would have continued on its half-life even with the shot that would have felled any other man. It was a small mercy than the fate which would have awaited him given enough time._

_Soon, the man's body, sans head, stopped twitching and lay perfectly still, the lone head that had stopped upon the cobbles wearing an expression of peace, as if he had realised what had happened and had finally accepted it. _

_The man sighed and began saying last rites upon the body, despite the lack of props he had, and upon speaking the last words, pulled a handkerchief upon which two crosses were embroidered in silver thread and, with that in his hand, and wrapping this firmly in his hand, he reached out, prodding into the dead man's fingers and wrapping the cloth around the small silver disc found within those fingers. _

_Just as he had done so, a masculine voice and a sudden burst of illumination broke out behind him: "Oi, wat 'choo doing there? Stop, police!"_

_This last statement was addressed to him, he knows, as he begins to flee the scene with every fibre of his being with his sword. Even though, quite frankly, he had delivered an innocent from unspeakable horrors that the rest of the population were thankfully ignorant of, lucky them, it was not so in the eyes of the oh so reasonable law, in which science and tangible proof took centre stage. No, he would have been hung as a murderer, for the courts of civilization did not recognise vampires or any creature of nightmares and darkness and thus would not have believed the truth. Most humans did not wish to recognise a truth so frightening. _

_He continues to flee, thanking God that the beat constable was far slower such that he was able to escape under cover of darkness, never stopping under the cover of darkness until he had reached the small church in which he currently put up in. In his haste to flee, he had not heard a small clink of metal striking the cobblestones over which he fled, never stopping until he reached sanctuary. _

_Running up the three large steps, he struck the heavy double doors three times, before the door was promptly opened by the local elderly priest of the parish. "Thank God you are back, Brother Emile," the priest spoke with relief, a small smile upon his withered lips. _

"_Yes, and I have recovered the coin..." too late, he realises, too late, what he had recovered... "It's gone," he whispered in horror and disbelief. _

_The smile immediately faded from the old priest's face. "Dark times are coming for London," he murmured. "It is too late to do anything now. If it is meant to be, the coin will come back to us. Do not throw away what chance the Almighty had granted you this night to search for it now, Emile. If it is picked up, it will be revealed, and once again the Knights will save the poor soul from the Fallen."_

_The horror was still evident upon Emile's face as he nodded. "May we be in time."_

"_May we be more successful in our endeavours the next time." the old priest replied._

_Far away, under the shadows of the night, amid the cobblestones of a certain street of London's East End, a silver coin glimmered, or parts of its upturned face did, most of it covered by the black tarnish of time and evil. A part of it glimmered brighter than most, giving the impression that the tarnish took the shape of a wolf's head, and the brightest spot its eye, that somehow, somehow, the coin was alive, aware, and awakening..._

* * *

_**The whole gamut of good and evil is in every human being, certain notes, from stronger original quality or most frequent use, appearing to form the whole character; but they are only the tones most often heard. The whole scale is in every soul, and the notes most seldom heard will on rare occasions make themselves audible.**_

_**~FANNY KEMBLE, Further Records, Feb. 12, 1875**_

_**Does anyone know the exact wording of the Catholic last rites? I'm a bit fuzzy on the details.**_


	2. On the Way

_**Sympathy for the Devil**_

_**First: On the Way

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**_

_**No one becomes depraved all at once.**_

_**~JUVENAL, Satire**_

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"Murder is murder is murder," I commented while slowly studying the body. "Murder by decapitation after shooting is altogether thorough, but rare."

"The beat constable, Bobby Fraser, reported that he stumbled across the scene at about three in the morning," Lestrade reported, "when a shot rang out. About ten minutes later, he came around here and saw a figure in black stooped over the body, holding what looked like a sword with blood on it. He gave chase, but we lost the perp over the alleys. He then proceeded to get more constables, who secured the scene, and then I got to you at six. As far as the boys are concerned, the scene's untouched. Thought it may have something to do with that string of murders around Shoreditch at the moment, so I asked you in."

"Yes, yes," Watson stood by me, yawning slightly. Considering the time, and the fact that Watson liked to sleep in, I didn't blame him. The fact that he could still yawn in the face of such a corpse was amazing, even for a doctor who had seen more than his fair share of bodies such as Watson.

"The sap was shot straight in the heart," Watson noted. "At least he didn't suffer."

"And the cut was quite a clean one, showing that it was done with a sword by an experienced swordsman." I noted. "They were running from...there," I continued, pointing in the direction we just came from. "As you can see, our victim's shoes contain a great deal of mud, which left a thick trail up to here," I indicated the man's shoes, and a spot to the body's side, "and here. From which, the trail at the side continues on..."

"He was shot before decapitation, because there is more blood on the ground than around the neck wound," Watson noted, avoiding my eyes as I looked at him.

Watson has frankly been quite a mystery to me since I, for lack of a better term, came back from the dead. His actions, which were completely opposite to what I had expected, had convinced me that this man had no limits and didn't have it in him to nurse a grudge. One could truly not ask for a truer friend, even if said friend had acquired a few quirks that I attributed to the passage of time, such as trying not to look anyone in the eye, or becoming increasingly twitchy with a few more vivid nightmares, if his ramblings that could be heard from my room were any indication. His features still remained an open book, but now on occasion the book had on an excellent poker face matched only by statuary and paintings. I chose not to focus on those changes; after all, people do change over time, and I imagine that the abrupt loss of friend and family in less than a year would certainly impact profoundly on anyone. At least he did not succumb to any diseases and die. I don't think I could have found anyone like Watson. Sometimes, Watson, I really do under-appreciate you.

"After which, the murderer was searching through the man's person, but the constable came upon the scene, after which he fled..." I jumped up to follow the trail, Watson following along, the two of us slowly following the trail of footprints ringed with London silt up to...a puddle.

"Well, this is a waste of time," I remarked softly, turning around to see Watson's face. It impressed upon me that I had hardly ever seen my friend's face contorted in such an expression of fear that passed to a poker face upon noticing my scrutiny before that I really wondered what had he seen. I was about to follow his line of sight when Lestrade called me.

In between discussions of the victim's background, which was one of a thug and a serial violent offender and a oft seen visitor of Scotland Yard, and therefore a case I would probably never bother to solve except to prove myself, and frankly I saw no point to, seeing as it was a commonplace murder except for the rather outlandish modus operandi that matched the Shoreditch Stakings, which was at record three stabbings to the heart by a wooden stake, two decapitations and one burning. Aha for the sensationalism of the fourth estate. But I digress.

What I did note out of my peripheral vision was Watson kneeling on the ground not far from the puddle, picking up something in his hand to examine, before his expression blanched into fear. I saw him stuff this thing into his pocket, get up, walk over to the corpse, close his eyes as if bracing himself, and then looking down on it. He then quickly backed away from what ever it was that he saw now, not that there was any change, and hurriedly closed his eyes, as if willing the sight to go away.

I have said before that I do not focus on these quirks. I think it is high time I did.

* * *

Watson excused himself earlier, saying something about a charity clinic, which I knew for one was a lie as his duties at his charity clinic were on the day after, so when I returned to Baker Street I was quite surprised to see him intently studying a sheaf of papers in our shared sitting room. He had done a fair amount of searching, I noted; I can't think of any other reason why the heavy volume next to Watson's medical books, or _grimoire_, as the serial murderer we removed it from called it, would be moved, as the absence of dust proved. I fail to see how it could be a _grimoire;_ the book was completely blank, unwritten. Later evidence proved it to be a _grimoire_ in _waiting_, once he had amassed enough blood to write the book. Good thing we got to him. Now Watson used it as room décor, not writing in it.

"You knew the victim, Watson?" I asked politely.

"Not personally," he brusquely replied, searching through his papers. "Saw him once or twice in the charity clinic, looking to be patched up." I decided not to mention the expression of fear I saw him carry upon looking at the body.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Family details," he replied. He apparently found them, and put down the papers with a sigh of relief.

"He was single and alone in this world, I take it," I noted.

"No family or friends to miss him," Watson dully replied, throwing the rest of the sheaf into some semblance of order before using his fingers to rub at his brows. I took it to mean a headache. "All alone, in the world. Perhaps it was better for him, but I can't see him unlamented."

"What was his name?"

"Peter. Peter McDaniel." Watson replied with a haunted look far off into space. "God, no one deserved _that,_" he continued saying to no one in particular.

"I quite agree with you, no one deserved to be beheaded after death." I nodded to show it.

He had that haunted look again as he shook his head. "You wouldn't understand, Holmes. You wouldn't understand."

I had no idea what he meant by that. Perhaps I should have taken note of those words, for they spoke of strange and dark times to come. Whoever who said _may you live in interesting times_ certainly knew what he was talking about.

* * *

_**Does anyone know how to get a good map of 19th century London off the Internet? And can anyone tell me the distance between Whitechapel, Westminster and Shoreditch, I would really appreciate it. **_

_**Please read and review!**_


	3. In Interesting Times

_**Sympathy for the Devil**_

_**Second: In Interesting Times**_

Three months had passed since the murder of the late and somewhat lamented Peter McDaniel. The unbearable heat of summer had given way to the cool autumn that many a poet would have waxed lyrical on, and yet I was no closer to solving the mystery of Watson than I was that summer of 1898.

For one thing, some of Watson's actions were just plain illogical. With the help of the Baker Street Irregulars, some of which seem to have a vested interest in Watson's well-being for reasons quite understood, I have successfully tracked Watson's movements for a week after, and frankly, I am at a loss as to reason why a doctor would need large amounts of silver, an iron box, paint and in one case, chicken blood for. Then there was the fact that he had requested the use of our cellar from Mrs Hudson and had been digging there. Furthermore, there had been...odd circumstances of late that I do not completely attribute to coincidence.

The first inkling I had was just after closing the murder of Peter McDaniel, where it remains unsolved, and my involvement with a Spanish gang of smugglers and coin forgers. We had just tracked down the gang's central exchange point and was waiting for them to carry out the transaction. By some bad luck, they did carry out the transaction and yet found out that we were there, resulting in my and Watson's involvement in what felt like a besieging from all sides. Watson and I had been separated and then I had been shot in the leg, thankfully only through muscle and not bone.

What happened after I was shot was quite unclear, given the pain I was going through, but I was distinctly aware of Watson's shout of _"Holmes!" _before a smell of rotten eggs hit me, and it seemed to me that something must have exploded quite spectacularly; there were screams from the Spanish gang and I distinctly heard one of them scream: "_¡Diablo! ¡Consiga lejos! ¡Salga!"_

I am aware that the smell of rotten eggs could only mean burning sulphur. Even so, I am not aware that the burning of sulphur produces hallucinogenic fumes, otherwise I have no inkling as to why anyone would call Watson a devil. But really, I don't think Watson had merited enough hate in such a short time of their acquaintance to inspire such hatred in the man.

My train of thought was interrupted as the forces of Scotland Yard made their grand entrance and apprehended the perpetrators. Finally; took Lestrade long enough. However, my attention was drawn to Watson, whose face was the colour of three-day-old oatmeal and wearing that expression of fear again.

Quite a mystery; what was burning sulphur doing in a London dockside warehouse, why would someone call Watson a devil, and why was Watson so afraid?

* * *

Immediately after we got back to our shared rooms, Watson trudged up the seventeen steps to his room despite Mrs Hudson's protests and locked himself there. By listening at the keyhole, I was able to discern quite a few words:

"What is wrong with me? Why do these things happen? What is going on?"

These few words I had trouble listening as Watson spoke over and over again in what sounded like a sob, hard to tell through an inch-thick door, and from the creaking, I suppose Watson was rocking on it. What was he worried about I cannot tell, but I could certainly deduce one thing.

Watson was afraid. Afraid...of himself.

* * *

I made no mention of this when later on, some time after an excellent dinner provided by our landlady, Watson entered our shared sitting room and sank into his armchair by the fire, roaring as it was despite the relative warmth left from a London summer. I continued to silently observe Watson as he stared into the fire, wearing one of those stone-cold poker faces again as he studied the flames with an expression akin to wariness.

"Cold, Watson?" I asked politely.

"No, Holmes, not quite."

"I see, but pray, do tell me why you have been studying the fire as if it was nitroglycerin."

"It's..." he seemed to shrug. "Nothing, Holmes, nothing really."

"I find the case today quite interesting," I commented. "It seems to lead to a whole other mystery, such as why would one of the smugglers cry out _"Diablo"_ at you today."

He seemed to freeze there, as if waiting for the bombshell so as to determine which direction he should run from.

"Then there was another case in point," I continued. "I saw you with the same expression of fear you carried yourself not over three months previously, when we were investigating the death of Peter McDaniel, and I have had no evidence or anything to find out what had made you so afraid."

I leaned forward, causing Watson to shrink back. "What is it, Watson?" I asked softly. "Why are you afraid? Look at me, Watson," I curtly said, for Watson was still trying not to meet my eyes.

"You wouldn't understand, Holmes," he answered softly, still not looking me in the eye. "I see...the nightmares..."

Ah.

"Afghanistan then?" I prompted.

He seemed relieved. Too relieved."Yes. The smell of sulphur, the beheaded soldiers...they trigger a...sort of...instinct...of fear, of fighting for survival..."

"I see," I nodded, remembering that quite often, our memories come back to haunt us. "I see."

I did not make a note to force him to tell me why he was lying. Watson _really_ was a terrible liar; I could tell that he was telling only half the truth, but I chose not to probe further. We all have secrets we keep.

* * *

Watson's left shoulder began to act up with increasing frequency as the days passed. I myself noted this as he seemed to be talking to himself more and more lately, the conversations becoming so heated that he once threw a book at wherever this imaginary being was supposed to be. I found myself growing concerned over Watson's mental well-being as this phenomenon grew progressively worse, sometimes even accompanied by that smell of burning sulphur that had associated Watson with the devil in a certain smuggler's eyes. So concerned I was that I began to wonder, devoting my time in between cases to this conundrum, which has proven to be a many-pipe problem.

The facts were as thus; after 1894, Watson was already acting strangely, therefore we could postulate that his odd behaviour was brought about by a traumatic event between the years '91 and '94. We can presume that this traumatic event was the bereavement of Mrs Mary Watson, _nee_ Morstan. However, the fits of schizophrenia only began around the time of Peter McDaniel's death, therefore we could assume that Peter McDaniel had something to do with it.

Unfortunately, I needed more data to eliminate other possibilities, such as perhaps my habits were taking a toll upon Watson in his middle age, as he had turned the famed Watson bull pup on me when I was playing the violin at the time of three in the morning, as I noticed later. In fairness to him he was suffering from a headache and, were I in his shoes, I would probably have done worse than take the offending objects and lock it in my rooms. Of course, I got it back later with his apologies, but I must say that my favourite mood of Watson's was definitely _not_ when Watson was angry, and that Watson was completely justified.

I needed to ask Lestrade about Watson's behaviour during the time I was...absent. I'd really rather not have the only person outside of Mycroft (and even then only in small doses) whom I could honestly say was more than an acquaintance to me succumb to schizophrenia or some form of mental disease thereof. Rent notwithstanding, there were few people I trusted enough to have a gun to watch my back.

Taking up my hat and the lone coat hanging on the coat-rack, Watson having already departed to drop off something at Scotland Yard, I walked out, hailed a cab, and quite soon found myself in Scotland Yard headquarters. It was a while more as I navigated the corridors of the building before I got to Lestrade's office, or, more accurately, the shared offices of Scotland Yard's detective division.

Lestrade pushed aside a few papers he was in the midst of filling in as I unceremoniously took a seat in front of his desk. "Well, what can I do for you, Mr Holmes?"

"It's about Watson," I sighed. "I think he's undergoing a mild case of schizophrenia."

"Excuse me?' Lestrade blurted in disbelief, his eyes wide and alert. "The _Doctor?_ Schizophrenic?"

"Even I cannot believe it, but the symptoms are there," I shrugged. "I am now searching for the probable cause of it. There has been cases where schizophrenics make a recovery..." I did not add how they would occasionally relapse after a few years.

"Well..." Lestrade seemed to be attempting to recall. "...he was kind of prostrated after Missus Mary's death, and then there were the nightmares, if his last housekeeper was to be believed, bit of an alcoholic, she was...then there was the accident with the cat and the gas-light..."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, a gas-light fell over and set fire to a cat pretty near to the Doctor, but the Doctor's unharmed, so it's not really important, although coincidental and misleading enough such that the more superstitious boys have taken to religious iconography and avoiding the Doctor..."

"Yes, it sounds like what the less knowledgeable of the Yard would do," I dismissed. "What I am looking for is something...unexplainable about Watson, a reason for his rather...eccentric behaviour even after Reichenbach," I wisely did not add 'any behaviour brought on by my disappearance'.

Lestrade's ferrety features straightened themselves out to a completely serious look at that. "Well, there was something..." he emphasised, "but frankly...I can't believe it. I can't come to terms with it. It's the truth, but it's so fantastic..."

Well now, here was Lestrade actually at a loss for words. "Tell me."

"It was just after Missus Mary's..." he made an empathic gesture with his hands that I took to be the unspoken word, "...and after he got his credentials for police surgeon, fairly chewed out the chief surgeon, I can tell you...we were facing a group of people who called themselves practitioners and lately taken to murder, and somehow they got their hands on a few firearms by the time we tracked them down...one of the team got shot and was bleedin' out..." For a Cockney accent to be making its appearance, Lestrade must be fairly nervous, with a tremble to his voice and a pale face that I knew amongst the London criminal classes to be caused by fear. _Hmm... _"He was bleedin' out, kept screaming in pain, dying. And the Doctor...the Doctor...he kept telling him not to die, even though the bullet hit the carotid artery. And then...then it got cold, so cold...The guy kept screaming, but he couldn't die, it was like...he wasn't _allowed_ to die, like the Doctor's will kept his soul in its mortal coil, as the Doctor kept working, kept trying to stop the bleeding...then the cavalry came, and took the guy to Charing Cross. He pulled through," and here Lestrade visibly shuddered. "He shouldn't have. The Doctor worked a bona fide miracle then, Mr Holmes, but...I still can't believe it..." he pulled his face with his hand, as if attempting to awaken from a stupor.

"Your story is fantastic at best and delusional at worst," I finally concluded a while later, hardly daring to believe my ears. "Is there some proof?"

Here, Lestrade pulled back his collar to the extreme right to reveal the round scar of a bullet shot, right over the carotid artery in a position that by all rights should have killed him. "I was the one who got shot," Lestrade quietly whispered. "I don't care if you don't believe me, Mr Holmes, but I've said what I can, and if it'll help the Doctor, I'll do almost anything. The Doctor saved my life there, and for that I'm grateful."

I wordlessly left Scotland Yard after that. There are just some things one do not comment on, and I could tell that the question of insanity was already hovering over Lestrade as he told his tale. I have the facts, but what do they mean?

* * *

I have once commented that the brain is like an attic. Being a wise man, I naturally choose to bring in only the necessary knowledge for my line of work. This of course included superstitions and tall tales of magic and the supernatural, to some extent. However, the mystery of Watson was a puzzle that required greater faculties for deduction than my own, but before I brought this before Mycroft, I needed certain knowledge to answer a few more questions. Professional pride was at stake here; after all, I did not beg my brother for advice every time I hit a brick wall.

I began with the cellar of 221B Baker Street. Watson had buried something there; that I was certain. The most likely possibility was whatever curio he had retrieved from that scene only three months ago. Therefore, if I found it, perhaps more light could be thrown upon this teaser.

There was only one barrier standing in my way; first, no matter what I did, the infernal door simply would not open. Even rushing at it had simply resulted in my bouncing off the door and landing three feet away from said infernal contraption. Picking the lock had resulted in my acquaintance with a charge of static electricity that removed most feelings in my left hand and my hair standing on end (not that much of it stood). Finally, I gave it up as a bad job and took my search to the one room I was technically not supposed to enter; Watson's room.

Praying this time that Watson would b occupied at the charity clinic, I picked the lock and sneaked in, borrowing a leather-bound book that was placed on the table, as if it was important but the reader had wished not to see it. Beside the book I could see a few notes with Watson's near-illegible handwriting on it, with odd words such as _Blackened Denarii, Lupiel,Seal, Fallen._ Needless to say, they caught my attention immediately, so I swiped the notes as I carried both tome and note into the sitting room.

The title of the book itself was enough to set alarm bells ringing in my head: _Elementary Magic,_ written by Ebenazar McCoy. For a moment, I had thought that Watson had been taken in by a charlatan, but then I noticed that what I held might be a clue to Watson's odd behaviour. My old friend, considerate reader that he is, had opted to place a small bookmark at significant pages that I was sure would yield quite a bit of information.

The first of such pages was dealing with what could only be said as the circle theory. From what I could glean through skimming, a circle made of certain materials, or just drawn, could be used for mainly two things; to keep things in, or to keep things out. Another page was on the use of 'wards', whatever they were, to protect and contain. A third page was on the use of symbols, or such, to strengthen either circles or wards, detailing how circles, paired with the right symbols, could contain beings of flesh, spirits, or in between.

I scoffed at the last one, one believing my Boswell to have finally gone off the bend. Watson was reading up on _magic._

I began to sift through the introduction, which I had completely skipped, while waiting for Watson to return so as to confront him with his apparent insanity. I can honestly say now that the first impression I had of the author was of a delusional psychopath.

_When you pick up this book, you may possibly be facing a few illogical mysteries in your life, such as how did the family cat suddenly burst into flames, or how did ou manage to jump ten feet, or find yourself seeing a person as they really are when you look into their eyes etcetera. You may already realise this, but, really, magic does exist. _

_Magic is basically energy, the energy that comes from our emotions, from all around us, from even the earth, the sky and beyond. The feel of the spring breeze, the magic of a sunrise, the change of the seasons, that is the elemental forces that make up part of magic. Only some people, very rarely, are born with the ability to wield these forces. These people are known as wizards._

_If you, a non-wizard, pick up this book, I highly recommend that you return it to whoever you stole it from. This book is written only with practitioners of the Art in mind and therefore, you would gain nothing whatsoever from reading it, only the impression that the original owner and possibly I, the author, am nuts. _

_American, _I thought. _Only that race can be so straightforward even in print._

Just then, I heard the front door open and the familiar _drag-thump _ofWatson making his way up sounded. I closed the book and waited for the fly to come to the spider...

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_**The power of choosing good or evil is within the choice of all.**_

_**~Origen**_

_**Please read and review!**_


	4. Says the Fly to the Spider

_**Foolish men imagine that because judgement for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgement for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death.**_

_**~Author, Unknown **_

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_**Third: Says the fly to the spider**_

My personal maxim is that whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Unfortunately, I do not know if it could be applied in Watson's case as I am left with two possibilities that do not quite agree with me.

The first possibility was that Watson was insane. I would, very rightly in my opinion, call a hansom cab to send to Bedlam anyone who actually reads up on how to perform magic, believing themselves to be wizards. This is compounded by the fact that it is more likely than the other possibility due to being subject to my presence twenty-four seven, the running joke between Yarders being how long it would take for me to drive Watson insane, though I fail to see how and, judging by the uproarious laughter when I voiced this question, none of them would be telling me any time soon.

The second possibility, and here I am beginning to doubt my sanity, is that, somehow, against all line of reason and logic, Watson had magic. A sudden acquisition of magic would explain satisfactorily how Watson had managed to rescue a dying man from death's door, Lestrade's wound (and very existence) being proof positive, as well as the mysterious cellar door that _just-won't-blasted-open..._not to mention the sulphur smell and the cry of 'devil' from that Spanish smuggler.

Here, upon seeing that Watson was reading _Elementary Magic_, I began to be certain that the first hypothesis was the correct one as most people knows, the idea of magic is simply absurd. However, you, my old friend, had done the impossible, and, to my great surprise, I was proven wrong.

Indeed, whoever said that truth was occasionally stranger than fiction knew what he was referring to.

* * *

"Good evening, old fellow...Holmes, where _did_ you get that book?" Watson's face was incredulous, mixed with anger and a pinch of resignation so small that if I had had not this power of observation that comes in so useful in the line of work of a consulting detective I would have missed it.

"I was wondering what had brought such a change over my old friend and sought to investigate it." I replied, still smiling, assured that I had hit upon the right solution. If only I knew. "I thus sought to investigate it and my inquiry had led me to this book, which had further led me to what I believe to be the correct answer."

Watson had sighed, walking over to me until such that he was looming over me. I had never noticed it before, but where Watson lacked in height, he made up for in breadth; indeed, that rugby build of his now gave me alarm as to how to deal with him should he get violent. Watson when angry and violent was a true danger; a man after all does not survive Maiwand by being weak.

"I believe that you are...not quite right in the head, Watson," I simply stated. On hindsight I should have perhaps not stated it quite so clearly what exactly I thought, but then tact had never been my strongest suit.

"And to do that, you broke into my rooms." Watson growled, eerily low. The smell of burning sulphur filled my nose with its odour, as I nervously reached to the ledge beside my armchair for my pipe, already filled, and a match to light it. As I struck a light, the resulting flame flared quickly, consuming every bit of the pine wood such that I yelped in pain and dropped the match, which was thankfully extinguished before it hit the ground. "Have you no concept of privacy, Holmes?"

The sulphur smell filled my nostrils as I sank deeper into the armchair, attempting not to look at Watson without being obvious. My eyes turned towards the currently glowing match to see it glow brighter and finally burst into a small, orange flickering flame, the sulphur smell growing ever stronger.

_Sulphur. Brimstone. Fire._

_Hellfire._

"You broke into my rooms, Holmes," Watson whispered, deadly quiet, as the flame grew even larger, catching on the carpet. "And the thing is, you could have just asked. Do you not trust me?"

In fact, I had pondered that question before. Given that you have lied to me once, Watson, I had already deduced that this secret is one that you have absolutely no intention of ever telling me. Therefore, I had to discover this secret by myself. Unfortunately, I do not think that it is wise to raise such a cynical point of view to someone who may not be quite right in the head.

"You don't trust me, do you?" Watson quietly voiced, his expression lost. "I...see."

"I need to go out," he abruptly concluded as he stepped back, that expression of fear again apparent. The flame died once more. "I...need to clear my head..."

The slam of the door soon informed me that I just might have made the worst mistake of my life as my Boswell left.

* * *

Mycroft was not pleased, needless to say, when I turned up at the Diogenes rambling on about Hellfire. On hindsight it may not be the best way to prove that I was in my right mind, but even I doubted my own sanity then, as I told my brother everything.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "in any other situation I would suspect you of having succumbed to the needle again. However, it so happens that I completely believe you."

I stared, dumbfounded, at him. "You believe Watson?"

"Yes, but it would be easier to explain the solution with someone you cannot refute," Mycroft stated, pushing himself up from his chair in the Diogenes' Stranger's Room. "Today is his club day, and he should be in his lodgings above the club now."

The door of this mysterious entity's lodgings was imposing; a piece of dark oak, with solid iron frame and a plain brass knocker set in the middle. Mycroft knocked politely on it seven times.

"What." A voice called from behind.

"Langtry, it's Holmes," Mycroft stated. "Much at the risk of sounding clichéd, it's happening again."

There was a sound of bolts being drawn, a few muttered words that sounded like curses, a _pop_ of suction as the door moved out of its tight housing, and I got my first look at this Langtry.

"Langtry, this is my younger brother, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is the fellow founder of the Diogenes Club, Arthur Langtry."

If there ever was a Merlin in this day and age, its model could have been Arthur Langtry. Tall, imposing, with long hair and a long beard of the same shade of pure white and piercing blue eyes, framed by a face seamed with age and wisdom. Arthur Langtry looked every bit the stereotypical wizard, even dressed as he was in a purple dressing gown stained in places with chemicals I could not even begin to guess at; I have certainly never seen that sort of pink before in a chemical.

"What now, Holmes? If you haven't noticed, I don't freelance," Langtry growled at my brother, who remained impassively calm.

"Langtry, what do you know about wizards and how do they achieve their magic?" Mycroft prompted.

If it was possible, Langtry turned as white as his hair, or perhaps whiter. "Come in," he brusquely said, stepping back to allow us entrance.

Langtry's sitting room was every bit the immaculate Victorian sitting room, with comfortable chintz chairs, a solid oak coffee table, and good carpeting. Upon the table stood decanters of amber glass obviously filled with a form of spirits. A large decorated fireplace in which a roaring fire burned merrily provided most of the light, supplemented by the guttering orange illumination of several candles placed around the room, with not a single electric light present.

"Okay, so which one's the problem?" he motioned to two armchairs, pouring a measure of amber liquid into whisky glasses as we sank into the chairs.

"The problem," Mycroft said, shooting a look at me, "was declared insane by his best friend, my brother here." I squirmed uncomfortably.

"Hmph," Langtry snorted, filling a glass for himself. "You'll need it later, Mr Holmes," he told me, motioning to the glass.

"Well, Holmes, tell me," Langtry sighed, as Mycroft began relating everything that I had told him.

At the end of the story, Langtry took a glass and downed half of it in one gulp. "Sounds awful," he commented. "Coming into magical power in a time where no one else believes."

"I don't understand," I voiced. "What light could you possibly hope to shed on this? Who are you?"

"Langtry is a wizard, Sherlock, and thus has knowledge of what the Doctor is going through." Mycroft looked at me, though not unkindly. "Also, it means, dear brother, that Dr Watson is a wizard. And if he continues like this, he'll die."

* * *

"This is the hard part, Holmes," I heard Langtry say, but I didn't care, too absorbed I was in attempting to comprehend what I had just been told.

"Elaborate," I heard myself ask.

"It could be what you don't want to know, Mr Holmes," Langtry stated. "It could force you to keep secrets that no one would believe. It could change the way you think and feel. It can ruin your life beyond anything. You have a choice now, Mr Holmes; you can choose to know, or you can choose to wash your hands of this problem. We will take it from here."

"Watson is my friend," I replied, my voice as cold as the winter snow. "I will help him, and I will save him, even if it means battling ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and whatever else that bump in the night! To do that, I will need information, so tell me what I need to know in order to save Watson."

Langtry looked at me straight in the eye for the first time, those piercing blue eyes somehow seeing straight into my soul, somehow...I felt like I was staring into an abyss, and the abyss was looking back at me, that this Arthur Langtry, human or no, was a being who walked in worlds of light and darkness, and that Arthur Langtry was not lying, nor was he insane. He was someone who saw things that no mortal man had ever seen and horrors of the night that we humans would never comprehend out of fear, and yet soldiered on out of hope. He was wise, not in the conventional sense, but that he used power he was born with and knew the truth of the world, and sought to protect people from the monsters in the darkness. He was not perfect, of course, I could tell, but the fact that I could see his self so completely both enthralled and scared me. Who knows what Langtry might have seen in me...?

Then it ended and I sank back into the chair, clutching the glass and swallowing its contents, the alcohol's burn dulling my disbelief and fear temporarily. After a while he nodded, closing his eyes. "Very well," he said. "I will tell you."

* * *

"Magic is real. Wizards are humans who hold magical power and can wield it," Langtry explained. "The gift manifests itself most often around fifteen or sixteen years of ago, but there has been cases of it appearing during a man's mid-life crisis, when he is depressed or in mourning, or when they have lost someone dear. It starts small, and from there it continues to grow such that one could expect a full talent within a year or so. It seems that this friend of yours is one of these...late bloomers. It's a wonder that he managed to remain sane after such a long time without seeking help..."

"Magic cannot be real," I heard myself say. "That would mean..."

"Monsters are real. So are vampires. As are werewolves, faeries, ghouls, ghosts, and many other things that go bump in the night," Mycroft firmly stated. "You have just experienced a wizard's soulgaze and you still deny its existence?"

From the obvious pairing, I can infer that it was something to do with a wizard gazing into my soul, which was eerie at best and downright insanity-inducing at worst. "There is no proof, Mycroft, of the existence of magic. Most so-called gifted people may just be charlatans making a living through scamming gullible fools for dosh. If magic does exist, despite the obvious reason that it is illogical, then why exactly have there been no record or eyewitness statement of it?"

Langtry sighed. "That's the easier part. People don't want to accept a reality that frightening. As a race, humans are an enormous bunch in denial. We're more than capable of ignoring facts if the conclusions they lead us to make us uncomfortable, or afraid. Time after time, history demonstrates that when people don't want to believe something, they're more than capable of ignoring it altogether."

"So, you're saying that several civilisations of scientific study, advancement, theory and application, all based upon observation and studying its laws is...in error of dismissing magic as superstition." I said, sceptical.

"No, they're dead wrong," Mycroft replied. "They ignore it and pretend that it doesn't exist. Think; you find out about monsters that make even the most horrifying police report sound like a penny-dreadful novel, about things that happen that you can't do anything about, to protect yourself from. That there are people who can simply take a doll and some of your blood and make a ritual to kill you across the city, that there's a troll under the bridge you walk across, or a monster waiting under the bed to grab your ankles if you get up, or there's something in your closet, waiting for you to fall asleep so that they can reach out and grab you...and that there's nothing you can do, because the rest of the world doesn't believe in magic. Then, you reason it over, and get back on with your lives, and you forget the horrors surrounding you in the night, and finally reason that what you don't know won't hurt you."

I stared, dumbfounded, at nothing in particular, rocking in disbelief at what I had just been told. My brother, the British Government, was almost outright declaring that magic was real, it existed, and with it a whole gamut of horrors that the rest of the world didn't believe in.

A whole other world that exists even in the heart of London.

* * *

_**Thought of the day: **_

_**Arthur Langtry, the Merlin, was said to have lived 'when America was still colonies' which would put his birth-date before 1776, so at this time he would be over a century old, and already coming into full wizard's strength. Of course, by logic he should look like an old man, seeing as magic doesn't exactly stop ageing. Of course, he was portrayed in the Dresden Files books as an insufferable jerk, but that might have been a pretty unfair representation by someone who had been on the receiving end of the Council's cowboy justice, so any accurate judges to Langtry's character is pretty biased as the source used as evidence is biased. We **__**take it that Langtry was not as jaded as he will be in the books later. **_

_**Please read and review!**_


	5. I Believe it Because it is Absurd

_**When I was a kid, my father told me there was no such thing as monsters, my nightmares were just figments of my imagination. As I got older, I had to wonder, was he lying to me, or just wrong. - Harry Dresden, The Dresden Files (TV), 'Birds of a Feather'**_

* * *

_**Fourth: I believe it because it is absurd**_

"But that's impossible," I floundered a bit, not that anyone who knew me well except for Mycroft, curse him, could tell. I would have continued presenting my case for why is it impossible when the door sounded, and an envelope slid out from under the door.

Langtry got up, lumbered over and opened it, reading whatever could be written upon the paper. "Holmes, as scintillating as this conversation is, I have a problem right now concerning what could possibly be another crisis for London." He began to speak, obviously used to giving orders. "Holmes, be prepared to send a few agents to clean up the scene later. Mr Holmes, I could show you empirical proof of the supernatural right now, if only so as to forestall any future debates concerning ghoulies and ghosties and anything else whose very existence you would like to deny, if only so that we can find this friend of yours in time. Would you like to come with me?"

Of course I went.

I almost wish I hadn't.

* * *

The hansom cab took less than an hour to get from Pall Mall to Shoreditch, despite the evening traffic, such that the sun had set and the gaslights mere flickers here and there as we got out of the cab and made our way on foot. For a moment, I wondered where we were going as Langtry turned a corner.

Then, I could only stare in shock as Langtry was blown backwards as a large, black, human-shaped projectile slammed into him. Heeding the lesson that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, I cautiously looked around the corner to see only a human figure in the dimly lit alley, apparently holding another human in a choke hold. The second figure, from what I could make out, had a neat moustache, and a game left arm and leg.

"Get off me!" I heard Watson shout and the first figure let go, apparently suffering from the side effects of an elbow in the solar plexus. Watson further took the chance to knock him unconscious.

"Watson!" I shouted, running over, concern temporarily subduing any instinct for any self-preservation I had possessed. "What the devil are you doing, Watson?"

"H-holmes?" Watson said, disbelief evident in his voice. "I must be insane. I just saw that mugger bodily throw the nice priest to the end of the alley..."

"So did I, old fellow, so did I," I gravely replied, checking Watson for any injury, superficial or otherwise. "Watson, I...look out!"

We quickly rolled to avoid the oncoming roundhouse thrown to us by another figure that had appeared all of a sudden from the shadows, scrambling to place some distance between us and the newcomer.

"_Candela," _I heard Langtry cry, before I could see illumination, orange and guttering, which allowed me to see our newcomer clearer. I can only say that I was glad that we were not near him. He was pale, with liver spots, and purple bruises here and there that could only have been post-mortem, dressed in funeral attire that by all rights should only be worn by the corpse, with an aura that made me feel afraid, if I were accustomed to such emotions. Here and there pieces of flesh must have washed off his face, and his eyes were soulless, his very existence a mockery of life.

I am not a religious man, but at that moment I could only think that here before me was a mockery of God.

"Black Court, eh? I suppose that's your Renfield, then?" Langtry trudged closer, pointing a hand towards the newcomer.

"Indeed, wizard," the man smoothly replied. "We have no quarrel with you, mage, merely with the good doctor. The doctor, you see, has come into possession of an artefact that we of the Black Court require. It is hard times for us recently."

"You mean with the recent killings of members of London's scourge, parasite?" Langtry's voice was filled with distaste. "What is it you want with him,_ vampire_?"

"I believe the doctor should know," the man replied. "After all, he did take sufficient steps to seal it such that we could not track the item. It was only by luck that we smelt the sulphur and the raw power of the fires of destruction near him. And, of course, having come so close to our quarry, we will not tolerate any disturbances. A shame that the servant could not detain him long enough," he spat at the figure Langtry had called a Renfield. "No use even for food."

"I have only one answer for you." Langtry stated, putting up both hands.

"What?" The...vampire...smiled evilly. It was the only descriptive word that could be used for such a sadistic, arrogant smile that perverted even the very meaning of a smile.

"_Ignis!" _

If I recalled correctly, what Langtry had yelled was Latin for 'fire'. He had called fire.

And fire answered.

* * *

Well then, here is quite the _deus ex machina _we have here. I have taken the trouble and about three months of time to find out Watson's secret, and yet Langtry's appearance had solved the entire mystery! Quite the anti-climax here, eh?

It was not actually so, for then fire answered, and the vampire screamed, rushing towards us in a rage of unholy defiance as it reached a hand out, obviously intent on killing one of us. Short of wondering how on earth could Langtry achieve that state of combustion outside a laboratory, and how could anything continue moving at that degree of being flambé, I pulled Watson up to retreat, but it seemed that we had not enough time, as the...vampire...loomed over us...

"_Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius!" _a voice I had never heard before, yet undoubtedly carrying a German accent, shouted, and more light, this time, shone. The vampire screamed up to high C at the very minimum as we backed quickly, placing ourselves behind Langtry as he stood ready, and thus I had a good look at the figure that had been bodily thrown in our direction earlier.

Our saviour was six feet tall and male, German apparently, if the large Roman nose was anything to go by, dark of hair and eye, and dressed in a voluminous priest's robe with customary Roman collar, a white cross hanging from it. The only incongrous item that differentiated him from the usually gentle Catholic priest was the glowing broadsword he held in a prepared stance, his face with an expression of anger, and at that time, I do believe that he was sent by God. That is, if there was a being such as God.

The monster snarled, half its face burnt off, leaving only a smattering of burnt black flesh and one rheumy eye beside a livid burn across its other cheek, its left hand burnt down to bone, and yet it did not bleed. It turned towards the holy warrior, howling as it made a mad dash faster than anything I could believe possible towards him, howling as its body burnt where the white light touched it. It cowered from the light soon, turning to run in the opposite direction, but our saviour came, and lopped its head off, quickly and easily.

I stared at this fellow who had dared violate British law so simply, as if merely taking a breath, as he sheathed his sword into a scabbard behind his back. "If you don't mind, Arthur," he rumbled.

"I missed the last time," Langtry replied, defensively, as upper class as the Queen herself, as he held out both hands. "_Ignis!"_

As we watched them incinerate the body and chop off the Renfield's head, I could sense that there were a lot of questions that needed answering.

* * *

We had adjourned to Baker Street, clearing the scene quickly for I had little doubt that the beat constable would stumble upon the scene soon due to the light show of Langtry's pyrotechnics and I had not the desire nor the faculties to invent a suitable lie other than 'we found it', which I doubt would be believed by the fools of the police. There is only so much one could lie about.

"What was that?" Watson was panicking, examining the finger that had somehow landed in his coat pocket with tweezers and gloves at the ready. Admittedly, I had not expected the finger to curl over the tweezers, so Watson, old friend, do forgive me when I only hesitated a second before clapping a beaker over the offending appendage.

"That, old friend, is a question that will be answered soon," I replied, glaring at our two guests. "Along with exactly what situation you've got yourself into and what did they want from you. Let us begin with the charming man claimed to be a vampire whose finger we currently hold in this." I motioned to the beaker with said appendage.

"It was a vampire," Langtry stated. "One of the Black Court of Vampires, to be precise."

I frowned. "Such specific usage would imply that there is not only more where that fellow came from, but also that there is more than one form of vampire." Watson, curled up in his armchair, turned paler than I had ever seen him.

"Indeed there is, and _vampire, _or anthrophage, is only one form of supernatural predator," Langtry replied. "Recently, the publication of _Dracula_ had raised awareness of the Black Court's characteristics, strengths and weaknesses, such that the Black Court is currently under the threat of genocide. Although they wield the strongest dark power of the Vampire Courts, even a herd of sheep can be a threat to a wolf."

"So the rash of killings in Shoreditch..."Watson voiced out.

"The victims were all vampires. Check with the coroner, perform an autopsy, and you'll find out that the bodies don't actually resemble human remains." Langtry replied. "That, however, is not the point. Doctor Watson, is it? I occasionally hear of your friend's exploits in the _Strand_. Believe it or not, half the supernatural world has heard of your friend's name, especially after the removal of Milverton, who had, once in a while, carried out some work for a party one way or another."

I noted this with some surprise. "Milverton is a blackmailer, were you not worried?"

"Mr Holmes," the priest, who introduced himself as Emile Strauss, dryly said"I would love to see who in their right mind would attempt to _blackmail_ someone who can call lightning from the sky and fire from the heavens."

"Excellent point, but I was going to mention how absurd the notion of blackmailing a wizard was," Arthur pointed out. "Now that we have answered your question, Dr Watson, answer ours; how long since you came into power?"

In my peripheral vision, I saw Watson stiffen, as if deliberating. "...'92..." I could briefly hear.

Eighteen ninety-two. _Mrs Mary Watson, nee Morstan, called to our Lord on the sixteenth...year of our Lord 1892..._

"I was mad...mad...Mary had died, and I was on a visit back here..." Watson was choking back several sobs, "I was...depressed... and the fire was burning, and I kept wondering why, why, the injustice of it all...and then I got angry, angry at the fire...the fire raged out of control, and the mantelpiece would have caught on fire if Mrs Hudson hadn't quickly thrown a pot of tea over the flames..."

That would explain why he paid the fireplace a ginger reverence paid usually only to volatile explosives and dangerous bacteria.

"Then the accidents continued, accidents that I just couldn't explain...I must be mad...mad...right? I kept seeing people where there weren't people, funny accidents kept happening around me, and then once, in a surgery, a pair of scalpels just flew into my hand from across the room, nearly stabbed me...Holmes, am I mad?"

It was almost thankful that Watson was debating his own sanity. That way, I didn't have to do it for him.

"Doctor Watson, may I shake your hand?" Langtry stated, getting up. Warily, my Watson acquiesced, his eyes growing wide as he did so, breaking the handshake just as the hands connected. "What...what was that feeling?" Watson questioned, wonder evident in his voice.

"What happens when two practitioners shake hands," Langtry replied, now gazing into Watson's eyes. "Doctor, look at me."

Silence passed as the two of them stared at each other, my nervous fidgeting ignored by them except for the priest. "It's a soul-gaze," Father Strauss spoke, noting my movement. I began to lean closer to hear what he would say. "It's what happens when a wizard locks eyes with any human. They can see into the other's soul...and the other can see into their soul. And whatever you see will remain with you forever, untouched even by the passage of time. Every time you see the person you gazed, whatever you saw in their soul will always remain, and whatever they see, will always remain with them, and it will never be forgotten. It is also the fastest way to convince someone of magic's existence, but a bit drastic."

"Why?"

"Because if you look into a madman's eyes, the insanity stays there forever."

I was saved from coming up with a suitable answer when Langtry went back to the settee and sank into it, clapping a hand across his eyes and groaning.

"Bad sight?" Father Strauss questioned lightly.

"War veteran," Langtry replied. "Believe me, he's gone through hell on earth and survived. He's also slightly possessed, Emile."

"Possessed?" Watson and I asked simultaneously.

"Yes, possessed. By what, I don't know. Wizards don't know everything, and I need more information before I can come to a conclusion." Langtry sighed, something he was doing more and more frequently, I noted. "However, I can say that it was a demon."

"The sulphur smell," I said.

"Hellfire," Langtry agreed.

"Oh." Watson said, "I...I think it may be something to do with the...coin."

At the mention of a coin, Father Strauss sat up. "Start from the beginning, Doctor, leave nothing out."

"It was three months ago, when Peter McDaniel was murdered," Watson said, his eyes with that far-away look of someone attempting to dredge up an old memory. "I sensed...something...dark, something..."

"Evil," I helpfully supplanted.

"Evil," he agreed. "The source of power was a coin on the pavement, a silver coin. I thought it may have something to do with McDaniel's death, so I tried to see...he was being controlled by the dark power, Holmes...they stole his mind...they turned him into a monster."

"Peter McDaniel? Oh, the Renfield who stole it," Father Strauss nodded slowly, seriously. "Death was a mercy compared to the fate that awaited him."

"The 'it' in question, Emile...what is _it?"_ Langtry cautiously asked.

There was a moment of silence before Father Strauss answered: "Lupiel."

The name sent a shiver down my spine, I having never felt such fear for an entity I had never met before.

He then turned to Watson. "You knew, didn't you? What the coin was."

Watson nodded gravely.

Father Strauss studied him for a moment. "It seems to be in good hands," the priest declared finally. "And it would be impractical to move it just yet, seeing as we cannot allow the Black Court to get their hands on it. Do you have it?"

"It's in the cellar," Watson's tone tuned wry. "Buried six feet underground, surrounded by chains of iron and in silver charms, with additional containment and protection measures around it. It's not like something a real wizard could do," he inclined his head at Langtry, "but there are several of them. Since I couldn't create quality, I made do with quantity. I tried, but..." here he rolled up his sleeve, revealing his old war injury.

The wound of a Jezail bullet was a mass of scars, but the flesh was intact, at least, with patches of healed unbroken skin here and there. In the midst of scar tissue, was, made up of healed skin, a symbol of a wolf's head in profile, too obvious for the healing skin to be coincident with that shape.

"The sigil of Lupiel," Langtry breathed at the sight. "Oh good lord."

"I am inclined to agree," Father Strauss spoke in a hushed tone.

I am glad that I went with a more exotic answer: "_Credo quia absurdum est._" After all, it was so absurd that I had little choice but to believe.

* * *

_**Please read and review! It's to be continued!**_

_**The quotations above are in Latin and are easily found on Wikipedia.  
**_


	6. They condemn what they do not understand

_**There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Mafia.**_

_**KURT VONNEGUT, JR., The Sirens of Titan**_

* * *

_**Fifth: They condemn what they do not understand**_

_It is wrong to tell these humans of this world._

_He is a wizard, one of the youngest Senior Council members of recorded history, and he knows its rules like the back of his discoloured hand. He knows that humans should never be told of their world, the Inquisition being a prime example why. Show them a supernatural conflict going on, and humans become so illogical and afraid that they begin to destroy anything related to it on sight. Most don't care that one monster was right and another was wrong; they kill both and thus sleep better at night. _

_Nevertheless, he wonders what forces were at work to make him tell everything to the new practitioner in the presence of Mr Sherlock Holmes. He knows already, that Doctor Watson, once into power, will never leave the part of the world inhabited by the night and all within it, never to see a normal life until the power were to fade or unto death. Given the stray energy released by the Doctor; his talent was not a minor one, not like Holmes, or his younger brother, he had to say that the latter was the more likely. Mr Sherlock Holmes, having received this knowledge, would now be a part of this world where the ghoulies and ghosties wander in the night, albeit a microscopic, backwater part, if he knew what was good for him. The Doctor, on the other hand, would have to straddle both worlds now. The poor sap._

_The doctor didn't know what he was in for, but nevertheless handled it quite well. He had seen warlocks succumb and use black magic, confident and arrogant in the power they hold that they need not answer to mortal authorities. The doctor had not used black magic just yet, but considering that he had lived with this power and no knowledge of how to control or use it, his record was quite a miracle. He must have been unusually lucky, Langtry muses. _

_Nevertheless, it appeared that he thought himself cuckoo. Langtry didn't blame him for that; Langtry himself had had disbelieved in magic a long time ago. In comparison, he'd only have to live with ignorance for sixteen years. The Doctor had lived with it almost three times that length of time._

_Yes, the doctor was an extraordinary one among wizards, like his friend was among humans. He almost had to laugh at the oxymoron; the scientist and the wizard. He hopes that, perhaps, they would survive this crisis._

* * *

"I am obliged now to inform you that there is a White Council of wizards, our governing body, and that you, Doctor John Watson, are obliged to follow these laws, which are written to guard against the misuse of magic by wizards against humans." Langtry declared, with more than a hint of British pomposity in it, as we leaned forward to hear them.

"The First Law is Thou Shalt Not Kill. This only applies to humans. Self-defence and the murder of monsters is allowed under this law. Second Law of Magic: Thou Shalt Not Transform Others. Third Law: Thou Shalt Not Invade the Mind of Another. Fourth Law: Thou Shalt Not Enthrall Others. Fifth Law: Thou Shalt Not Swim Against the Borders of Life. This covers necromancy. Sixth Law: Thou Shalt Not Swim Against the Currents of Time, which covers any and all forms of reading the future except in the most nebulous and vague terms. Seventh Law: Thou Shalt Not Seek Beyond the Outer Gates. I do not care to inform you what are the Outer Gates tonight; the story is too long. The Fifth Law applies only to humans, but animal necromancy is likewise frowned upon."

Watson struggled to take it all in, I not facing this problem, having already memorised them. Then, he asked the pertinent question: "What happens if I break these laws?"

Langtry's face looked to be set in stone and righteousness as he answered: "Never break the Laws of Magic if you wish to live."

I bristled, though not visibly, at the only slightly veiled threat, though the priest managed to notice it. "The laws may not be nice, but they are necessary," he told me patiently.

"Are you a wizard too, Father?" I shot back. "Quite an oxymoron, a wizard working for the Catholic Church."

"I am a man of faith, not of the White Council, though I understand part of what they do and part of their ways, and they are good...mostly," Father Strauss replied. "I am as human as you are."

"And yet..." I motioned towards the sword, which lay supported by the settee beside him.

"_Esperacchius,_" the man replied, stroking the sword. "I wield it against the darkness and its servants to protect those who need it. It is one of three swords ordained to fight against those that live in the dark."

"Hope, is it? I suppose Love and Faith are nearby as well," I said, almost mockingly.

"Hardly. _Amoracchius_ is in America at the moment and _Fidelacchius_ somewhere in the Orient, either India or China, I do not know," he shrugged. "We Knights of the Cross would only come together in a crisis to fight against our sworn enemies, the Order of the Blackened Denarius."

My ears pricked up at that. "What is this Order?" I asked, curious.

"You are familiar with the story of Judas Iscariot, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, yes," I dismissed. "Judas sold out the Son of God to the Romans and received thirty silver coins in exchange..."

"You have admirably summed up what I would relate," the priest was smiling. "For every coin paid for His Son's life, a fallen angel was sealed within each coin, a Roman denarius, to be exact. Each coin contains a demon waiting for some unwary human to pick it up, and then they possess the human, tempting them with power, with knowledge, until the human grows more and more reliant upon them, and then, finally, the human's soul is exchanged and the fallen takes over. The thirty fallen angels in the thirty coins form the Order of the Blackened Denarius, with Lupiel being one of its members."

"So...Lupiel is a demon," I didn't quite bother to hide the scepticism in my voice, ignoring what Watson was conversing with Langtry about.

"A fallen angel," the Father corrected. "A more traditional demon, so to speak. He is known as the Lone Wolf, the Wiser One, the Hunter, and he typically strays far from his compatriots. The details behind why he fell from heaven is rather vague, but even alone, Lupinel has managed an unparalleled record of escaping us. He is...ambiguous. He was one of the angels who did not take a side, but the reasons for why he was sealed in a denarius is unclear."

"I...see," I replied dismissively.

"You do not believe what I have said," the Father looked amused.

"There is no empirical proof," I replied. "Of the existence of magic or demons, no visible proof, although I am at a loss to explain Langtry...I do think that there was a sort of device hidden within his clothing..."

"It is your choice, Mr Holmes," he was still smiling as he said so, "You are also quite lucky, to perceive the truth so quickly."

"Lucky?" I said, deeply disturbed.

"Practitioners of the Art who grow up in a society which censures the illogical and believe magic to be superstition come into their power with little to no background of what they undergo when they come into power," the priest told me. "In the rush to assert their power, that very power tends to corrupt them into thinking that because of such power, they need not answer to any authority, and begin to enthrall those around them. Such mind control, for lack of a better phrase, had a tendency to be not only aimed at the people around that practitioner, who has no protection or chance to defend themselves against such an intrusion, but also resulting in the unfortunate person's descend into madness as the psyche is forced to comply to an outside will. Like this, the practitioner unwittingly breaks the Third Law which results in swift justice being meted out. That is, if they aren't killed resisting arrest by the Wardens. You are lucky, Mr Holmes, because your friend here has apparently enough decency not to do such a thing even without knowledge of the laws."

I swallowed a lump that had unwittingly formed in my throat.

"You are also lucky that your friend had recognised the coin for what it was and took appropriate steps to keep the demon away from you," he continued. "If he had not done so, and judging from your extremely thorough methods of searching a scene as told in the _Strand_, you would no doubt have found the coin and fallen under its influence, having no background or foreknowledge of it and therefore easy prey to the Fallen's influence. I have seen the victims of the Fallen, and believe me, it makes every single madhouse in England pale by comparison."

My expression must have shown the inner turmoil I was now going through, for the Father now smiled, a compassionate one that briefly illuminated his face. "You will grow used to it, it merely takes a bit of time," he told me, before turning to Langtry. "Are you done yet, Arthur?"

"I'm going to have words with the local book store owner soon, but for now, we thank whatever higher power out there that the Doctor managed to teach himself rudimentary magic using McCoy's book," Langtry said, holding the _Elementary Magic _book up. "It not only helped...control the power, but gave him some preparation on containing and concealing the coin, even though frankly, I cannot believe that anyone could teach himself magic to such an extent." Watson smiled sheepishly at that, deliberately not looking at me. "Meanwhile, we keep the coin here, and only move it when the crisis blows over."

"Why don't you move it now?" I asked, puzzled.

"The coin is like a prisoner. In order to move the thing from one prison to another effectively in case anyone comes for it, we need a full armed escort and transport, which currently we do not have. It is also nearing midnight, and that when the Black Court is at their strongest, and we can almost be guaranteed that they will come for it, on the assumption that we would immediately move the coin to a safe place," Langtry replied, getting up. "Mr Holmes, is anyone outside? I'd really rather not get caught in an ambush unprepared."

I squinted through the glass, discerning two human shapes amidst the wan light thrown by the street light outside, and immediately resolved to give up the cocaine tomorrow.

"Dear me, there are two men outside, by the street-light, and one looks like Matthews, from that poisoning case last year, do you remember, Watson? It seems that an old acquaintance has come to join us, even from the grave."

* * *

I have had nightmares which run a wide gamut. On one end is the nightmares where all I do is add up numbers and try to talk to idiots to solve a crime. Frustrating, but not very nightmare-inducing. On the other end is where my old enemies somehow rise from the grave, somehow led by the late and very unlamented Professor Moriarty and come after me and Watson, much like right now, where I and two other acquaintances were making our way down to greet what in all possibility was a bogeyman from a few fairy tales. Except that this is not a dream, and somehow, against all logic, the man who poisoned his own family has returned from the grave and was standing right outside my...our..the rooms we share. I do not know where Watson had disappeared to; to all intents and purposes he had just disappeared into thin air.

The figure outside looked a lot like Matthews. That was, if Matthews had jaundiced skin, most of his face overcome by necrosis and dressed in a black suit with a white Ascot cravat, not to mention his head bent at an interesting angle much like he was hung from the neck until dead. Given that that was how he should be looking like now, I would say that he was the spitting image of Matthews. He was also wearing an expression of indescribable glee that took on a sinister aspect as pieces of dead skin fell off his face, blown by a northern breeze.

I stifled a shudder that was already building up within. The other _vampire_ was hidden in the dark, so I did not actually see the degree of decomposition that one had gone through, but I strongly suspect that it would be similar to Matthews's state, if not worse.

"Sherlock Holmes," Matthews, or a rotting lookalike thereof, said in a voice that sounded a lot like rasping sandpaper a sibilant voice that gave me goosebumps. "How nice to see you again."

"The feeling is assuredly not reciprocated, Matthews" I replied, deciding to take this into my stride. "The last time I saw you, you were being dragged by two burly prison guards to the Maria, screaming incoherently about vengeance. I saw you hang. I saw you die. I saw you buried. How you've managed to rise from the grave, I do not know, but I swear that I will throw you back six feet under."

He laughed when I had finished my tirade, a sound that lacked anything to do with the normal emotions to do with laughter, no joy, no delight, no _humanity. _"And how will you do that, Mr Holmes? Call in Scotland Yard? They would never believe you. To the British justice system, to the public, to the law itself, I am already dead. A dead man cannot be brought to court and charged, Mr Holmes. I, sir, am dead, and yet I am not dead. I am undead now, and I would love to stay here and debate the quandary of my existence, but time flies, Mr Holmes. If you would so kindly give us what we need, I'll be on my way, and you can kindly get back to whatever case that has attracted your notice at this point. Oh, no no no," he chided as Father Strauss began to draw his sword. "Put away the Sword, Sir Knight. I am not your enemy this night, unless you make me. Furthermore, if you were to make any move on me..." his grin grew wider, "then my unfortunate servant might just loose control and kill him..."

Out of the shadows, another thug stepped out, holding in a choke hold a little street urchin I recognised as one of the Irregulars. He was sobbing uncontrollably and no doubt panicked, his voice unconsciously getting higher and higher as he screamed: "Mr 'olmes! 'E's a vampire! Get away!"

"Give us the coin, Holmes," Matthews replied, still smiling, "and I return the boy's life, and I walk away and you would never need to see such a logical quandary as me again."

I felt my hands clench into fists but was saved from replying by Langtry. "Matthews, was it?" he lightly asked, seemingly dismissive.

Matthews growled at him. "Leave this place, wizard," he growled. "You have no place in this argument."

"I beg to disagree," the so-called wizard replied. "Especially when the imminent destruction of the last scourge of the Black Court is at hand here. The Venatori does take delight in exploiting those weaknesses so kindly brought up in Stoker's _Dracula_. Oh, I'm sorry, did I bring up a soft spot?" he asked at Matthews's obvious stiffening. "Your kind is dying, Matthews, accept it and leave, or I'll kill you so hard that your last victim will miraculously revive."

"If you kill me, the boy dies, wizard," he replied, motioning to the now sniffing Irregular.

Langtry appeared to be in deep thought, focusing on Matthews. "We will trade," he decided. "The boy for the coin. Swear it, Matthews," he said softly. "Swear on the honour of the Black Court that the boy will be returned safely, in full physical and mental health, when we hand you the coin, and for none of us to be threatened by you or anyone close to you or any of your lackeys after. Ah, you do know what that means, don't you?"

"You bastard," Matthews cursed. "Then, you swear on your power?"

"Mmm..." Langtry thought for a moment. "Not really. You see, there are three of us here, and you have missed one."

Matthews's face was priceless as Watson pressed his old army revolver to the thug's head and pulled the trigger, before grabbing the boy and pushing him away, the boy running off into the night. Then, Watson spun around and emptied every round into the thug, who was still standing, twitching as the bullets hit his heart, his lungs, and one more round in the head. Finally, the thug stopped twitching where most would have been dead several times over and lay on the ground in a pool of blood.

Matthews screamed at being foiled and rushed as us, sidestepping Father Strauss and slapping Langtry away. Langtry flew much farther than I would thought and hit the neighbouring street-light, sending it crashing down with him. I would have winced in sympathy if Matthews hadn't grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the iron fence that surrounded 221 Baker Street.

The feeling of being choked by Matthews's unexpected strength caught me off guard for only a second, but Matthews did not move no matter how hard I tried to break him off, my increasingly feeble attempts failing as he laughed nervously, excitedly, as he choked me.

"This is not even my full strength, Holmes," he laughed, as white spots began dancing in my vision from lack of air. "Feel now what power I wield as a denizen of the night. You know, I had thought of turning you into one of my willing servants, but frankly I find you too dangerous to let live. You, after all, destroyed Moriarty. Farewell, Sherlock Holmes."

"Get your hands off my friend, Black Court scum," I heard Watson yell as a familiarly terrifying smell reached my nostrils.

The smell of burning sulphur.

Matthews screamed as he abruptly let go of my throat, being lifted off and flew back about ten feet by what felt a lot like a speeding train narrowly missing me. Massaging my throat, I turned around to see my Boswell unsheathing his sword from his walking cane and take up a stance, protecting me should Matthews attempt an ill-advised assault.

Matthews got up, panting, to look at the still unconscious Langtry to Watson. "No way," he breathed. "That wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. No, no, no..."

"I would love to chat with you," Watson pleasantly replied, "but not only do I have a long-overdue confession to make, but you have a long-overdue appointment with death, Mr Matthews."

"You're nothing, nothing!" Matthews screamed, dashing towards us, hands outstretched, baying for blood. Our blood.

Whatever Watson was speaking was lost in the utter noise of screams, but it apparently had the intended effect, as the screams turned to howls (I wonder how the neighbours would take that) as Matthews sank down, scrabbling to get away from certain parts of him that had mysteriously caught on fire.

Or, at least he was, until Watson's sword came down and severed his head from his neck.

I did not understand what had just happened, only registering that the door of 221 baker Street was open and Mrs Hudson's gasps and near-screams until Father Strauss's reassuring accent came into play, but I knew, deep down, that I should not condemn just because I did not understand it.

As I watched Watson keel over, I decided that it was time I had a long-overdue talk with the enigma by my side.

* * *

_**Never let it be said that I, the author, do not know what I am writing about.**_

_**Please read and review! **_


	7. Conformity of our minds to the fact

_**A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it. **_

_**~Oscar Wilde**_

* * *

_**Sixth: Conformity of our minds to the fact**_

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Am I insane?"

"No, of course not. However, old fellow, I do think I am."

"So it is possible that we are mad, and all of this is a hallucination."

"Quite, Watson, quite. And yet..." I pointed to the body, still smoking from the fire that had burnt its owner...alive? Dead? What was the parlance used to burn the undead unto death? "We are presented with empirical evidence to the contrary."

"Ow..." We heard a grumpy voice groan, which could only be Langtry.

"Are you alright?" Father Strauss's voice called as the father's large form appeared, walking close to the body to check. "We might have to dispose of this somewhere..."

"Vampires, no decency to live beyond a few hundred years so that when we kill them, they turn into dust," Langtry grumbled, slowly hobbling over. "Right, then...Emile, throw it into an alley, the further from here the better. Doctor, Mr Holmes, behind the door."

"Who knows how many more enemies reach out from beyond the grave...?" I muttered as we were shoved indoors, the long-suffering landlady silently following, until...

"Shouldn't you stuff garlic into its mouth?" Mrs Hudson asked, surreptitiously looking at the door.

"No need, madam," Langtry half bowed. "I am so sorry for the fright that you have received after having woken so soon...do go back to sleep, dear lady...no, no, we'll be alright...no, no, it's a bad dream..."

Trust Langtry to suggest to Mrs Hudson that it wasn't real at all. If I weren't feeling so indignant on Mrs Hudson's behalf, I might actually feel some admiration for it.

As we slowly made our way up the seventeen steps, I saw Mrs Hudson walk back to her quarters, presumably to catch up on sleep. How could anyone sleep after watching that decapitation was quite beyond me.

"Under ordinary circumstances, I don't think any practitioner new to their strength could have conjured that much fire," Langtry said when we had settled ourselves before the burning fire, its flickering light chasing away most of the surrounding shadows. "Doctor Watson, how on earth...? How?"

Watson looked nervous there, as he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Magic?" My voice took on a hint of contempt as I answered in Watson's stead. "As you have so kindly pointed out, Watson is a...practitioner..." It would take a long while before I would ever say 'wizard'... "and as such would be able to call upon fire, is that correct?"

"You misunderstand, Mr Holmes, but most new talents would hardly be able to call up more than a matchstick flame on their own," Langtry quietly rebuked. "To call enough fire to burn a Black Court vampire would have been beyond even skilled apprentices. I take it that this was not your first time, Doctor?"

"I do not know, I have never _consciously_ done so before," Watson answered with emphasis on 'consciously', rubbing between his eyebrows, to my alarm. "I have a headache..."

"It'll pass," Langtry told him. "However, you _may_ want to consider learning how to control your emotions...like now."

"Excuse me?" I turned to see what Langtry was watching to see a tongue of flame narrowly miss my correspondence. "Watson..."

"The Black Court would be turning up in droves to attempt to get the coin," Langtry continued after the flames have died sufficiently. "Therefore, I would recommend that either of you get behind a threshold after dark, don't look anyone in the eyes, and try not to tangle with Renfields."

"What are Renfields...?" My question went unanswered as Watson politely raised a hand. Langtry nodded.

"What do we do with that?" he asked, pointing to the finger, which was attempting to give us what looked like a rude gesture before toppling over in its glass prison.

* * *

Watching Langtry carefully set fire to the feebly wriggling digit, incinerating it in a contained inferno, I continued to quietly monitor Watson, who stared at the burning finger, not saying a word until every last bit of it was burnt.

"Disposal of Black vampires is quite a chore,' Langtry commented as he wrapped up the burnt finger. "I'll throw this to a dog later, but now the immediate concern is your security. I sensed the wards you set up earlier, good job, but you might want to consider a few more. Sunrise would degrade them a bit, so work on it. Also, work on the containment, someone had tried to break through them with a lock-pick and a battering ram."

I did not meet the glare Watson shot in my direction; there are some things you just do not comment on.

"Overall, I'd better not add anything onto the wards, since I don't know how our magic would react to each other, but I'll send some books over," Langtry continued, oblivious. "I'll also teach you how to discipline and control your emotions tomorrow, when it's not two in the morning, and assuming that we're not running for our lives. You might have to be apprenticed to an older wizard..."

"I'll try to find help," Watson automatically replied.

"Excellent, except that...most of the other wizards in Great Britain are at Edinburgh, the White Council's stronghold," Langtry dropped the bombshell. "Even then, they don't advertise. You might want to go to this place..." he stopped and gave me a significant look.

I turned away, not caring to enlighten Langtry of my sharp hearing as he told my Boswell of a certain public house near the Strand. From Watson's reply, neither did he enlighten Langtry.

At last, something we agree on.

* * *

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"I don't believe in vampires."

"A trait we both share, except that believing in them would be quite unintelligent, given that we had just been confirmed with a man that the both of us saw dance on the hangman's noose, declared dead, and saw buried over a year ago. Speaking of which...?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"My apologies, Watson, but...I find that my logic has somewhat failed me. It is a lot to take in that a whole other world exist alongside everyday life, let alone that you have somehow acquired..."

"Magic. Although, Holmes, I noticed that some laws of physics still apply."

"They do? Which laws, pray tell?"

"Erm...I noticed that your breath could be seen when I...threw that fireball."

"Law of conservation of energy. That is gratifying to know; it shows that perhaps some things are not as illogical as first thought."

There was a long pause.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I was never certain...what is a Renfield?"

My Watson appeared to be considering the question, his face carefully neutral as he phrased out the answer: "Well...in the book _Dracula_, Renfield was Dracula's hypnotised lackey. In the real parlance, I guess it would be the result when a vampire uses brute magic to utterly destroy the target's sense of self such that they become the vampire's slave, reduced to murderous, raving lunatics who die within a year or two as a result of having their psyche ripped to shreds." he shrugged, although his eyes took on a far-away aspect. "Given that the whole point of subjecting them to such treatment was to create a quick disposable thug, I guess it works for them."

"Oh...that...doesn't sound pleasant." I replied uncomfortably. "Death truly sounds like a mercy after _that_."

"I agree," Watson replied, shuddering.

"Watson, the...thing in the coin..."

"The demon, you mean?" Watson's tone turned wry. "It speaks in my head from time to time, make my life easier, give a few tips on magic...I know it's a fallen angel, but occasionally, it gets hard to resist, and I have to pack it away into some part of my head, but rest assured that I do not feel a sudden desire to foam at the mouth or other such miscellaneous behaviour associated with insanity."

"I am sorry, Watson, I have never been associated with anything so..."

"Illogical? Odd? Against all logic? You can tell me, old chap, I've been around weird stuff for about six years."

"Supernatural."

"At least it proves that I'm not insane." Watson said lightly, belying a tone of pain.

"What _have_ you seen, Watson?" I asked, curious to know if Watson possessed any special sight due to the presence of such a...condition.

He had on a thoughtful expression. "What remained after the Great Fire of London."

I kept quiet. There were some things we were better off not knowing.

"It's three in the morning, and like this, we aren't going to get any questions answered," I said, getting up. Watson looked tired too as he got out of his armchair.

"Watson...?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"There aren't...any monsters in the house, right?" That was not the sound of my voice quavering.

"No, Holmes, there aren't any monsters," he replied.

I made a note to remember to use less double-edged words when he added: "Any of them had been driven off by your incessant violin playing at three in the morning."

* * *

_The mystery of Watson's odd behaviour was solved, resulting in quite a few changes to our general way of life. I now realised that all the materials that Watson had bought for unknown reasons had gone into making a few trinkets, some of which were involved in the sealing of the blasted cellar door. Many a unexplained explosion now came not from my chemical experiments, but of the doctor's making of some potion of sorts. Amid his papers I now found diagrams of some sort of working which to me served little purpose, but to Watson meant a lot._

_I had given up cocaine, feeling convinced that the first few unexplained explosions were brought on by the drug, but the explosions continued nonetheless. Even when I had primed the syringe, ready to inject myself, the contents of the hypodermic would mysterious boil such that the syringe broke. After the breaking of three such syringes by the same mysterious method that Watson, drat him, knew I could not explain, I gave it up as a bad job._

_Nevertheless, Watson's new-found abilities, polished under the reluctant yet militant master Arthur Langtry over the next six months, turned out to help me solve more cases than I would have believed possible. Watson soon came to be known amongst the younger constables as 'The Bloodhound' after he had, to my chagrin, sniffed out, quite literally, a stock-broker who had absconded with almost half a million pounds of funds embezzled from his company. It was quite a novel situation when he sniffed the air and pointed to a general direction, crying out: "There he is!" And there he was, indeed. My surprise at this could not compare to the mortification I had felt when one of the Irregulars asked if Watson was part bloodhound. The awkwardness of explaining human reproduction and why it was literally impossible for any human to be part animal of a different species (not to mention a shudder of horror upon imagining the mental picture of the circumstances of Watson's conception should that actually happen) had led me to have firm words with Watson concerning this upon the case's conclusion. Lestrade's expression upon the case's conclusion almost made up for it. Almost; I had never seen Lestrade so close to apoplexy in my life. It is a memory that I would tuck away and keep until necessary for a quiet chuckle. Never let it be said that I do not laugh._

_Another upside made itself apparent upon the next skirmish, the Spanish gang having apparently set up new quarters in the West End. It was during this very skirmish that...something that looked a lot like what a hell-hound would have been made itself apparent on the side of the Spaniards. If not for Watson's wholly unexplainable fireworks and what felt a lot like raw force from unknown sources, I would imagine that there would be a lot more casualties on our side. As it was, I think the only effect on the Scotland Yard constables was an extra helping of denial upon the case report, and more odd looks and signs of the cross from superstitious Yarders. No one had accused Watson of being a devil just yet, apparently, Father Strauss's words that no one in their right mind would accuse a man capable of calling upon the forces of creation of devilry and whatnot seemed to have quite an element of truth in them._

_Of course, every situation had its downsides, Watson's current predicament being the spectre of the Shoreditch Stakings, three more victims having been unearthed around London, and the more dangerous spectre of the shadow of the fallen angel which, disturbingly, had taken residence in Watson's head. On a few occasion, I had caught him speak to open air, or certain pieces o9f furniture, which I strongly suspect was the result of speaking to a being that only existed in one's mind. I endeavoured to help by pointing out when this happens and, using increasingly loud volumes of conversation, drown out the fallen angel's words. It is not a foolproof situation, but we have had no other available solution at the moment. Father Strauss showed no sign of leaving our lives soon, and neither did Arthur Langtry for that matter._

_Of course, this peaceful way of life would end one day._

_And end it did after six months._

* * *

_**He did not wear his scarlet coat,**_

_**For blood and wine are red,**_

_**And blood and wine were on his hands**_

_**When they found him with the dead,**_

_**The poor dead woman whom he loved,**_

_**And murdered in her bed.**_

_**He walked amongst the Trial Men  
In a suit of shabby grey;  
A cricket cap was on his head,  
And his step seemed light and gay;  
But I never saw a man who looked  
So wistfully at the day.**_

_**I never saw a man who looked  
With such a wistful eye  
Upon that little tent of blue  
Which prisoners call the sky,  
And at every drifting cloud that went  
With sails of silver by.**_

_**I walked, with other souls in pain,  
Within another ring,  
And was wondering if the man had done  
A great or little thing,  
When a voice behind me whispered low,  
'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.' **_

_**~Oscar Wilde, 'The Ballad of Reading Goal'**_

_**TBC, my friends, TBC...**_


	8. When the reason for the law ceases

_**Evil is the shadow of angel. Just as there are angels of light, support, guidance, healing and defence, so we have experiences of shadow angels. And we have names for them: racism, sexism, homophobia are all demons - but they're not out there.**_

_**~Matthew Fox**_

* * *

_**Seventh: When the reason for the law ceases, the law itself ceases **_

It began with my meeting with myself.

Yes, I do realise the oxymoron of the above sentence, however, there could not be a term any more apt to describe the conflicting feelings I felt when I opened the door two hours before any sort of breaking fast would normally occur, to our shared sitting room one morning to see my very likeness, in my mouse-coloured dressing gown, in my very armchair. Of course, I _would_ have thought it to be a statue or a wax figure of a sort...until it waved at me.

Grey spots began dancing in my vision as I debated feeling disturbed at the fact that another me was in my chair, or the fact that I looked like a gangly scarecrow with a large nose, and I must have let out a sort of noise to indicate shock, because then, the figure in my armchair faded away and Watson's indignant cry of "Holmes!" was quite enough for me to deduce the exact circumstances.

"What was _that_?" I asked lightly, wondering how long it took before Mrs Hudson was up and at breakfast. I desperately needed coffee if I was to face any more of Watson's ... unexplainable phenomenons.

"Practice," Watson dully replied, holding out his hands much like how an art critic appraising a masterpiece would. "Langtry thought it would be a good idea to be well up on illusions, since illusions have a smaller chance of going haywire like the veil débâcle..."

"Ah," I replied uncomfortably, willing the (admittedly funny) memory of a very important part of Watson's anatomy disappearing. His reaction to its 'disappearance' took on the form of a soprano. The only downside to such a joke was that I could not share it with anyone else save Mycroft. We had quite a laugh at Watson's expense, but Watson had the last laugh as a result of a mix-up of test tubes that left me on the sitting room ceiling for an hour. The aerial view of our shared sitting room had been interesting.

"How goes the St Bart's case?" he asked lightly, wincing a bit in pain, no doubt from his leg in this damp weather the city was currently experiencing.

"I thought you were supposed to exorcise the ghost there," I replied, picking up my noted from more recent cases, and my correspondence from yesterday. "Seven cases, five of which are insignificant, one of which I have solved, and the last of which I am currently at a loss to..."

"And why?" Watson replied, adding in an undertone: "Go away." I presume that he was currently talking to the fallen angel. Or he was schizophrenic.

"No evidence of how the murderer left the scene, for one thing," I said. "Report from the Yard says that there was a clear, slippery slime left, which dried up into nothing a few minutes later. However, coroner's report also say that the corpse is missing most of its internal organs, so the fluid could have been bodily in origin, but how and why the murderer got the organs away from the scene without witnesses escape me..." I caught sight of Watson's expression. "You know, don't you?" I accused him. "How he got away."

"For one thing, the murderer's a _it_, not a _he,"_ Watson corrected. "And," he held out a hand warningly, "before you accuse me of delving into flights of fancy, allow me to remind you what happened to your last syringes."

"Very well, continue," I dully added. "But I will react as you have described if you tell me a faerie tale killed the man."

"Faeries don't eviscerate their victims," Watson shot back. "Only ghouls do that. And I can probably guess where the internal organs went." That voice laced with trepidation should have warned me that the answer was not going to be pretty.

Needless to say, I found myself curious. "Where?"

"The murderer ate them," Watson replied. "A ghoul can go through about forty to fifty pounds of raw meat a day, so it killed the man, carved itself a dozen dishes, and made for its escape."

"And _where_ did it escape?" I didn't bother to hide the sarcasm in my voice. "It didn't just vanish into thin air, now, did it?"

"It did," he answered. "It walked through the fabric of reality to a parallel world."

Previously, I would have scoffed at such a remark. Unfortunately, two vampires, three trolls under Westminster Bridge, quite a few ghosts, and what was tactfully described by Langtry as 'the minor consequences of living with a wizard' and by Watson as 'some tiny things that go bump in the night that I neither know nor care to know about' later, I am not too sure when would Watson be pulling my leg or when he would be perfectly serious. Therefore, I decided to change the subject, seeing as the reply to such a remark was not forthcoming.

"Father Strauss sent his regards, but he says that he would have to go someplace else that he is needed, and to keep the coin under severe lock and key," I said, aware that Watson, despite his sleepy exterior, had heard every word.

However, before he could reply, the doorbell had rung, and before long, Inspector Lestrade made his way into our shared sitting room, nervously looking about. Given that the last time he was here, _something_ very much like nitroglycerine in its composition, save less exothermic in reaction, exploded, thus singeing part of his moustache, I did not blame him for being so skittish.

"Another case, Lestrade?" I commented, lazily reclining on my chair.

* * *

"Let me get this straight. All the victims have been supposedly dead for at most five years, verified by different doctors, and most belonging to upper-class families who had seen them buried in crypts. Also, according to one of Scotland Yard's coroners, all the bodies resemble the human body, but are not human." It would have sounded unbelievable to me six months ago.

It certainly did to Lestrade. "Yes, sir," he said sheepishly. "Of course, Abbot's a bit old, so it could be him going a bit cuckoo in the head..."

"We will meet you at Scotland Yard shortly," I replied quickly, reviewing mentally what I could recall about the entire series. Which was the entire thing.

After Lestrade had left the building, I saw Watson pick up his walking cane and make his way down. I quickly followed.

* * *

Watson's cane was special for two reasons. First, it was a sword-cane of African snake-wood, given courtesy of Her Majesty's Army to decorated soldiers. It was very much a part of what he was.

The other reason was that it had odd carvings on the sheath that I did not care to know about, but gave the cane a distinctive beauty. It also gave the cane a whole new definition of danger. Till today, I am not sure what part of the cane was the most dangerous, the sheath or the blade. A blade...is wickedly sharp. On the other hand, I had seen him reflect a bullet with the sheath and club a criminal over the head with it. So, it may be correct not to assume that the sheath is less dangerous than the blade. It is also correct to assume that the entire thing was more dangerous than the sum of its parts.

Therefore, when we arrived at Scotland Yard headquarters, and I saw most of the superstitious constables give Watson a wide berth, especially on the side of the cane, I thought that they might be on to something good.

The victims of the stakings had not escaped decomposition, even with preservative measures. Parts of them were already dropping off from rot, and even then, mottled black bits crumbled if we so much as breathed hard at it. Here and there, a maggot poked out of human skin. Charming. The rot had gone so deep that, even for all my experience in autopsies, I felt that throwing up was a very good idea. Judging from the nearby police surgeon's green-tinged face, which was a near identical shade on Lestrade's face, he agreed with me.

"I doubt that Abbot's insane," I slowly said, manipulating a pair of forceps for a closer look at the inside. "this degree of decomposition had happened long before any actual injury had taken place. Either the victims were already dead and rotting in the first place, or they all undergo accelerated graveyard decomposition in a Scotland yard morgue. I would place a safe bet that the victims, or corpses, were already dead before they were dug out of their graves, then treated with any of the methods already seen, and dumped in a place hardly connected to the actual perpetrators. We are dealing with a group, Lestrade, a group of an indeterminate number, with untold resources to steal nobility from their crypts, and at least one master planner to plot this entire things out."

Lestrade nodded, scribbling furiously on his notebook. "Any idea who, Mr Holmes?" he asked, more as a courtesy than expecting any answer.

I saw Watson cough discreetly, and got the message. "I would need to research through my notes, Lestrade. Since this group has not been kind enough to lave a calling card, I would have to go through every book before I can find a link, or a parallel case. It's a start."

"I thought the Venatori would be more discreet in killing vampires," I hissed as we moved further out of Scotland Yard's earshot.

"It's a wiser choice to strike in daytime," Watson quietly replied, limping along, wincing from the remaining damp brought on by London's summer. "And it's a large scourge of vampires. Although if Langtry's sources are accurate, at present there are only five vampires left in the whole city."

"That's..good, isn't it?"

"Holmes, the Black Court is the worst type of vampire there is," Watson wearily explained. "They're stronger, faster, more ruthless than any other. Furthermore, they propagate faster than any type of vampire. It's like a disease; if you don't completely wipe it out, within days it comes back with a vengeance."

"Dr Watson?" We turned around to see that Gregson, with Hopkins in tow, behind us.

"Yes?" Watson was politely puzzled, studying their admirably blank expressions.

"The last body of the Shoreditch Stakings just came in." Hopkins monotonously said.

"You're under arrest as a suspect in the Stakings," Gregson added, equally monotonous.

The blank looks, the monotone, the absence of any of their personalities...Well, hell.

"Holmes," Watson whispered.

"Go. I'll get Langtry, and then I'll bail you out," I ordered. "And er..."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Try not to permanently injure anyone, there's a good chap."

I missed his spluttering reaction as I turned and hailed a cab to take me post-haste to the only other wizard in London.

* * *

I found Langtry hauling what looked to be a sack of cobblestones out of the Diogenes Club. The why, the where to, the how, was filed away as I related the full situation to him. I may have been described as egoistic by Watson, but what I most certainly am not is stupid. Having met a living (if they can truly be called that) vampire, and on the receiving end of one, I would cheerfully welcome anyone's help.

"Empty night," he swore, thankfully not within earshot of any delicate sensibilities as we made our way out of Pall Mall. "They probably decided to separate the two of you so that they could kidnap Watson. Probably by placing his bail."

"True, but how did they manage to convince Gregson and Hopkins to arrest him...?"

"From what I can glean from the news, the two detectives are agnostic. Which was probably why they didn't target Inspector Lestrade, but went for a softer option. They kidnapped them, enthralled them for a while, a bit like hypnotism, then sent them after Watson. After which, they probably wouldn't remember anything while they waltz Watson away from under Scotland Yard's nose. And did you even bother to read _Dracula_?"

My expression must have been more transparent than I thought, for he sighed. "Get on it later. For now, try to get the Doctor out. I trust he has an alibi for the stakings?"

"Yes, he does. But, Mr Langtry, what are you going to do?" I asked, puzzled.

His face was grim as he replied: "I'm going to call in the cavalry."

* * *

_**Dear Christ! the very prison walls  
Suddenly seemed to reel,  
And the sky above my head became  
Like a casque of scorching steel;  
And, though I was a soul in pain,  
My pain I could not feel.**_

_**I only knew what hunted thought  
Quickened his step, and why  
He looked upon the garish day  
With such a wistful eye;  
The man had killed the thing he loved,  
And so he had to die.**_

_**Yet each man kills the thing he loves,  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!**_

_**Some kill their love when they are young,  
And some when they are old;  
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,  
Some with the hands of Gold:  
The kindest use a knife, because  
The dead so soon grow cold. **_

_**~Oscar Wilde, 'The Ballad of Reading Goal' (cont.), Stanzas 5~8.**_

_**Please read and review!**_


	9. Forewarned is forearmed

_**Evil is always possible. And goodness is eternally difficult.**_

_**~ANNE RICE, Interview with the Vampire**_

* * *

_**Eighth: Forewarned is forearmed**_

I have an interesting theory that the vampires' mind tricks had addled Gregson's and Hopkins' brains beyond any measure of idiocy. This theory was brought about by the fact that despite the alibis for Watson provided by what must have been half of St Bart's, parts of Fleet Street, and Inspectors Bradstreet and Lestrade, it still took them over four hours of paperwork to discern Watson's alibi, then another hour of paperwork, which I suspect was a delaying tactic, during which the sun inched ever closer to setting, before I was informed that Watson had already been retrieved by three men. In a rare flash of anger, I had told Lestrade that if Watson was not found, Scotland Yard may no longer expect my help.

"I was too late," I told Langtry later when I met him at the Diogenes. "they've taken him."

"I think I can discern what for," Langtry replied dryly, before he stepped aside to let me see another old man, with grey hair that was balding in several patches and holding a staff carved of dark oak, aiming it at me. "Mr Holmes, this is Ebenazar McCoy, my associate. Ebenazar, this is the friend of that person I was telling you about, Sherlock Holmes."

I kept quiet throughout this, knowing that if a wizard could get my true Name from my lips, he could quite possibly control me.

"I know, heard of him through the _Strand_," McCoy grumbled, shaking my hand as he put down the staff in his other. "You know, a person's head isn't exactly the best place for a Denarian to be, Artie?" he added to Langtry, who said nothing, though an interesting tick appeared near his brows.

"As long as the shadow remains in his head, there is little we can do," he reluctantly admitted. "Furthermore, I'd rather have a bait than not know when they're going to strike."

"I'm a bit lost here, could any of you care to tell me the sequence of events?" I ventured as McCoy scowled.

"We have a scourge of Black Court vampires, who at present would be subjecting your friend to some horrible sort of torture to get him to summon the coin out so that they wouldn't have to search everywhere for it," Langtry dully explained.

"After which, they'll take the coin and quite possibly kill him," McCoy added cheerfully. "They can't enthrall him since an act of free will is needed to get the coin out, so most likely they'll force him to summon it."

"Damn smart, too," Langtry grumbled. "They'll try to make Watson give up control of his body to the Fallen within, and then make a deal with or force into submission the literal devil. If they manage it, we're doomed."

"Why?" I asked. They looked at each other before looking at me with pity.

"Take the most vicious serial killer you know. Triple the strength, double the power, increase insanity by fifteen and intelligence by twenty, and take out any respect for the laws of physics, or any mortal law come to think of it, along with any moral compunction or respect for life. That'll be the rough idea of a Denarian," McCoy shrugged. "Now imagine the scenario given to you under the control of a group of monsters who see humans only as food."

"That...doesn't sound pleasant." I answered somewhat sceptically.

"_That_ is a colossal understatement," McCoy dryly added.

"Then what do we do?" I was beginning to like the idea of whisky more and more.

"It is generally agreed that daytime is the best time to deal with vampires," Langtry said. "It is advised to wait. However, we are short on time; the vampires will rush to secure the coin as it could mean the difference between their life and death. The only silver lining is that they would have only started the torture recently. If we can find their nest, if we can find their numbers, if we can find where they are...we may be there in time. And if we are not..."

There was no need to say anything. We already knew the consequence.

* * *

Triangulation is an art that I consider necessary for any good detective looking for a career in finding missing people. I emphasis that it is an art, as inconsistent as the opposite talent of hiding was. I have guessed that in order to hide from sunlight, the vampire scourge's hiding place must be underground, and have ready prey that no one would miss at hand. That, of course, narrowed it pretty much to the East End of London. Unfortunately, despite having narrowed the search, the East End was a place filled with nooks and crannies that would take forever and a day to search through for one specific person.

As the cab rattled through the streets towards baker Street, I mentally plotted out the steps needed to flush the location out. The Irregulars would be a liability here; the vampires have already showed no hesitation in holding children hostage and I doubt that the age of their unlucky human acquaintances would matter to them if they were to decide to murder. It would be quite easy; if Matthews hadn't been so eager to gloat, I doubt that I would be breathing today.

That being said, I believe that the involvement of the official force was also not going to be useful. Mostly due to myself (and I lament the fact that my very agnosticism had had an impact on the Yarders that at this time was negative), most police officers were agnostic. Those that weren't wouldn't help in rescuing a wizard.

Hah. I thought wizard.

The cab stopped directly before the fateful street-light before Baker Street as I got out and paid the cabbie. "thanks, guv'nor!" the somewhat immature cabbie called as the cab rattled off.

Inspector Lestrade stepped out of the shadows, his hat in his hands. "I...trust that you've found the doctor, Mr Holmes?" he asked, meekly. Maybe I've been a bit too harsh on the poor man.

"His whereabouts elude me, Lestrade," I sighed wearily, part of my (regrettably) over-active imagination telling me of the various methods of torture my Watson could be going through now. "The last I saw, he was being led away by Gregson and Hopkins to Scotland Yard in relation with the Shoreditch Stakings, the aforementioned inspectors I strongly suspect of having been hypnotised." And I accuse Watson of sensationalism. I will never do so again.

At least, Lestrade had the grace to look sympathetic. "I see. Gregson and Hopkins hypnotised. No wonder they've taken over my investigation, what with all the disappearances in Blackfriars and all that they're supposed to look into..."

Blackfriars.

On the East End.

Where people disappear everyday.

"Lestrade," I found myself speaking, hoping against hope that this was it, "where are the disappearances concentrated?"

* * *

"You'd think," McCoy growled, thumping his staff onto Mrs Hudson's carpet in the sitting room, now a temporary War Room, "that those vampires would grow a brain now. It's common sense not to hunt in one's backyard."

"I highly doubt that doing so was due to common sense, but rather convenience," I pointed out. "It is, after all, convenient to spirit away a snack just wandering by at any time one likes than have to go somewhere else to hunt. Furthermore, if the disappearances are noticed, what then? People disappear in the East End all the time. The wolves have been hiding unaware in a herd of sheep that do not even believe they exist, much less notice them."

"And so, why this building by the canals?" Langtry grumbled. Sometimes I believe it nature's prerogative that the wielders of its forces are prone to times of crankiness. Watson tells me that this is brought on by lack of sleep. If I had to see as many horrors of the night that Watson undoubtedly had seen, and possibly worse, that no one would believe, I think I would be grumpy as well.

Of course, it could also be due to the fact that Watson's corner where he performed small miracles bordering between science and magic that had once allowed me to sneak in and out of Bow Street unnoticed was pretty cold. Hence the grumpiness.

But I digress. "From what I could glean from speed-reading _Dracula_, most vampires would quickly drain their victims. The resulting bodies would no doubt take up space that would have to be cleared sooner or later. Since the...scourge is not looking for the attention of mortal authorities, they must get rid of the bodies a little at a time. We have established that the West End is not a good body disposal, neither is it possible to set up a nest there due to Mr Langtry's presence. Furthermore, the Venatori, whoever they are, have killed here," I pointed out on the map I had sneaked out of Bow Street, "and here, and here, which puts out central London, since no sane man would set up living quarters in central London, given that the elusive Venatori would easily come and exterminate them. The only safe hunting and disposal ground would therefore be the East End, where most save the natives would fear to tread, and near the river, from which the police fish out bodies regularly."

"Hmph," the two wizards grumbled at me. "Wise-ass."

"And why this particular building, since any other building by the river would do?" Langtry asked.

I felt myself nervous for once as I related: "This particular building's basement holds the Charity Clinic of St Giles, which, as I recall, operates at all times. If I were a vampire, I'd think I would want a place that was not only filled with weakened prey, but would also provide the cover anonymity if men were to enter and leave at all times. It is also an admittedly convenient disposal ground; people die in clinic s and hospitals all the time. Who would notice if some of those bodies..."

"Were drained of blood." McCoy disgustedly finished for me. "Clinics like those hardly have enough personnel to check every dead, they would've simply sold the unclaimed corpses to some medical school after preserving the body."

"Mr Holmes, I am glad that you are not a vampire," Langtry said to me, just as a polite knock sounded, not on the door, but the window.

* * *

"This is the first time I've ever received a messenger at the _window,"_ McCoy muttered as we looked down at the albeit spectacular sight of what looked to be a man standing on solid air.

"Greetings, wizards and human," the...vampire (that I had no problems associating with the thing in front of me) said in a somewhat normal, if slightly commonplace, half bowing. "I come bearing a message from the leader of our scourge. He sends his regards to Mr Holmes, adds that he is a fan of the doctor's work in the _Strand_, and kindly bids Mr Holmes to surrender the coin our scourge so desperately needs to ensure our continued survival in London."

"Mitton, eh?" Langtry said to the vampire. "Why does he want the thing?"

"I do not know, I am merely bearing a message from our leader," the vampire smoothly replied, before his voice abruptly shifted to one that was all rasp and sandpaper, filled with some sort of malignant influence that I can only describe, to this day, as evil.

"Or, we will get the coin the hard way," that voice hissed. "You could not stop us fifty years ago, you will not stop us not, magelings. Surrender the coin, and I might just let the captive mageling free. If not, I will simply have to get it another way..." I could feel goosebumps forming on the back of my neck.

"One of the Blackened Denarii is bad enough," a familiar German accent spoke, clear and loud, ringing with an authority that would be associated forever in my mind with the Old Testament, "But having it in the hands of vampires would be worse. Begone, unnatural thing!"

A flash of white light and the vampire screamed, not unlike my violin when in between cases, now that I have heard it. Watson was right; it did sound like a laryngitic cat being strangled.

Father Emile Strauss bore down on the vampire from the roof (how did he manage to get up there I have no idea; he certainly didn't use a ladder in broad daylight) and somehow, the large sword he was holding cut through the vampire, eliciting a fresh bout of screaming. I strongly suspect that the very fact that 221 Baker Street being my place of residence and thus the site of many unexplainable noises and explosions has resulted in the surrounding residences' ignorance of the fact that a bloodthirsty creature of the night was screaming outside my house. After all, if a place had such noises regularly, after a while the neighbours' curiosity would wane, and they would ignore it.

The sword must have been sharp, for Father Strauss had easily decapitated the vampire as it tried to escape. Sighing at it, he then looked up and asked: "Is there an easier way to get rid of the body than lugging it somewhere?"

"How did you...?"

"I called in a favour and took a Way here," Father Strauss explained. "It's a long story, and apparently we don't have time. Arthur, Ebenazar, nice to see you again. Do you have your...paraphernalia? Mr Holmes, could you please dress yourself as that disreputable tramp that Doctor Watson comments on in the _Strand,_ get a bottle of chloroform, and injure yourself? I'll explain on the way there."

* * *

"I did not know that Rome provided such transport," I commented, studying the drapes on the carriage, which were of superior quality than most other cabs. Of course, it also meant that I had blood dripping on fine upholstery. Too bad.

"They don't," Father Strauss replied, cleaning his sword in the roomy confines of the carriage. "I borrowed this from a friend. Another will be here once we've finished."

"Finished?" I questioned.

"Yes. You see, when someone is kidnapped by the Black Court, it is necessary to retrieve them as soon as possible before..." Father Strauss shivered visibly, "before...the Renfield. So...we go in at day-break, but we would have to carry out reconnaissance. That is where you, Mr Holmes, should specialise in. We have..." here, he checked an originally good-quality, but with so many dents and nicks that came with time pocket-watch produced from his voluminous black robes "three hours before sunrise. Mr Holmes, try to get in, and out in an hour, so that we can gather a plan and a contingency. Ebenazar...divert the attention of any constables, the last thing we need is a hostage situation with someone...who cannot deal with everything. Arthur, I need you to prepare a defensive ward around the building and trigger it should any vampire try to escape."

"By _running_ _water?_ At _sunrise?"_ Langtry's voice rose. "Do you have any idea...?"

"I imagine it would be possible for the youngest ever member of the Senior Council," Father Strauss replied gently. If it is any comfort, there is a confluence of ley lines directly below..."

"I'll be fine," Langtry put up his hands in surrender.

"Excellent. Within an hour, Mr Holmes you should be out of the building. I need you to check how many corpses at least dead for over a century there are, that's the estimated age of the remaining vampires. I would also need you to find out how many people there are in the building, how many innocents, how many guards, and so on, any information you can glean that can help. After which," and here he lowered his voice: "you must knock out the driver and take the reins. I trust that you can drive the long rein?"

"Yes."

"Godspeed then. I and Ebenazar would move in at sunrise, retrieve Doctor Watson, and move out. You will wait here with Langtry. There is no back door in this building, only one proper means of egress. The moment we get into the cab, drive like our lives depend on it to Pall Mall."

There were several mistakes I noted with this ridiculously simple plan, but I asked "Would the Renfields not give chase? Or what if there are more vampires than first thought?"

"That, Mr Holmes, is what you would ascertain. Arthur and Ebenazar are too recognisable to be able to do such a thing. I would be killed if I so much as stepped into the place. You, as a human disassociated with most supernatural beings, would fit right in, and you have the added advantage of being underestimated by the vampires because of your very humanity. You will be our armourer, _praemonitus, praemunitus._"

In a world of the supernatural, where monsters wander the night preying on unsuspecting humans, the world where Watson had to live now...finally, I had a part to play. In all those times, Watson had protected me, had rescued me from the most dangerous of situations.

It is time to return the favour.

They have made a mistake in warning us. For having forewarned us of the danger, they have forearmed us.

God help them.

* * *

_**I have endeavoured to portray some subtext here as practice. The end is nigh!**_

_**LLS**_


	10. Seize the night, seize the day

_**Night is when terrible things emerge from their sleep and seek soft flesh and hot blood. Night is when unseen beings with no regard for what our people have built and no place in what we have deemed the natural order look in at our world from outside, and think dark and alien thoughts. And sometimes, just sometimes, they do things. **_

_**~Harry Dresden, The Dresden Files, Turn Coat, narration, by Jim Butcher**_

* * *

_**Ninth: Seize the night, seize the day**_

"I'm too old for this," I heard McCoy grumble as I fixed my disguise.

"Ebenazar, you are the same as you were sixteen years ago during the Krakatoa eruptions. Don't lie, I know it was you," I heard Father Strauss chide gently.

I swallowed a lump that had somehow appeared and got out of the cab, fully disguised. "S'cuse me, gentl'men, any of ya got a swig?"

All three stared at the figure I had become. "I think," Langtry, the first to recover, said, "that that potion has become unnecessary, Ebenazar."

"Aye, Artie, laddie, I know," McCoy's Scottish brogue began to make its appearance as he smiled and waved, walking off backwards. "Godspeed then."

I took a deep breath and prepared to infiltrate the nest of bloodthirsty creatures of the night for any sign of my wizard friend. Indeed, interesting times.

* * *

The clinic, despite it being free, smelt faintly of ammonia and disinfectant and just a bit more alcohol than most alcoholic beverages. A few men and women of all ages from the lower, harsher walks of life milled about, waiting, possibly for treatment. I did get my wound sewn up, but the doctor's blank expression tipped me off. As I stepped into the waiting room, the truly disconcerting sight was the empty, blank expression of all those people. I had never known the human expression to be completely empty until now, and the sight would be there to stay, always lingering in the back of my mind and the forefront of my nightmares and possibly unto my dying day and a bit of change after.

As I sneaked off, delving further into the heart of hostile territory, I began to mentally criticize the security measures that they had put into place. The very fact that I had not been spotted sneaking off was already significant that they were relying more on secrecy and the veil of silence to hide rather than a reliable door and guards to keep watch. Quite lax, in my opinion, but then again, in such squalid surroundings, none here, be it patient or doctor or nurse, would notice anyway. The added advantage was that only people whop believed in vampires (and that was parts of the East End) would notice, and even then, they would have more than enough sense of self-preservation to stay away.

As I moved closer, I heard a muffled _thump_ and what sounded like a groan of pain. Immediately, I moved further into the heart of their territory, down a hallway with cracks and peeling paint on the walls. Doubtless, this building had been built by a third-grade contractor who had never heard of the word 'stable'. This did not bode well for anyone inside, be they vampire, human, or wizard.

And yet, as I passed cracked, peeling walls, the walls gave way to occasional doorways, here a storage place, there a swinging door leading to a privy, no other place could stink this bad, another a closed door, and so on. As far as I could determine, the place was made in an L-shape, the last room directly at the end of the longer line. Then, as I neared the last door at the end, I heard Watson's voice.

My heart almost stopped as I shuffled nearer, wondering if the vampires could hear my shuffles as I came closer to the door. The entrance in question was a solid affair, though inexpensive, and clearly made to seal tight, to keep either occupants in, or intruders out. I betted on the latter; I could discern no doorknob from this side, and there must be a way to open the door.

Unless the vampires in question could turn into mist, but no; I had learned from Langtry that only older vampire sorcerers could so blithely ignore the laws of physics so as to turn themselves into mist, and the required energy meant that such an option was typically reserved as a last resort. The rest of the vampires of the Black Court, as that type of vampire was known as, were little more than bloodthirsty rotting corpses that were moving, and moving quickly, when they shouldn't be. I had been on the receiving edge of one before, not an experience I cared to repeat, and now I could appreciate why most assaults on the Black Court was dealt in daylight, when they were weakest. Truly, even for an agnostic and realist such as I, I could appreciate that this...this...monstrosity was terrifying.

Out of nervousness, I was about to shuffle back when I heard Watson's distinctive brand of cursing. Believe me, the sounds of fluent curses in several languages known in Europe and the Middle East could only belong to a veteran soldier. Added was curses in a Scottish brogue addressed to me, and that could only be Watson.

I never knew that he could curse so fluently in Gaelic. I didn't even know that there were so many colourful words in the Gaelic language.

"Frankly, I have no idea what applies to the exorcism of vampires," I heard Watson speak through a crack in the wall, so deep it was that the other end could be heard, if not seen, "but I think 'sod off' applies in this case."

"Idiot young mageling," A sibilant voice, all rasp and sandpaper, that made the short hairs on my neck stand on end whispered audibly. "Give us the coin, or I will break your limbs."

Watson, in a credit to his courage, laughed, albeit weakly. "My dear sir," he articulated, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "we both know that you cannot bend my will, because I don't care what you do to me. I also know that if you were to do anything more than threaten and posture to what is mine, I would sooner throw the coin into the Thames. That much running water would make it impossible for any of your kind to retrieve it, and to retrieve a single denarius in five miles of river would require divine intervention. It all comes to a test of wills- you can't risk harming those I care for, because if you do, then you risk losing the coin, and I can't risk letting you harm them, either directly or indirectly, for I will never forgive myself if that happens. The question now is, who would have the stronger will?"

The voice hissed. "Mageling, I will take delight in your screams for mercy when I get the coin. You might as well not delay the inevitable."

"You want the Hellfire, don't you?" the non sequiter must had thrown the voice off, for it took some time to recover.

"You need the fire of destruction, or the coin's power, to be able to walk in daylight," Watson continued. "If even a single vampire were to be able to walk in daylight with its full strength, survival would be much assured, and you would be able to expand the scourge. Find a way to take over London from the domain of the fae. Spread your disease through the heart of Empire, and possibly Whitehall. And those who control the British Government control the Empire, which would be an awful lot, wouldn't you think? So, no."

The vampire gasped, for a moment, and then, that eerie voice laughed. Laughed.

"You are unaware of the power of the angel within, Doctor," the vampire spoke, empty of any positive emotion. "Why take over a human empire when I could strike at its heart? My dear doctor, you are sorely mistaken of the motives of one who seeks the angel who created the worst destruction ever recorded in the Old Testament."

Watson choked. I would have too, but I was too preoccupied with trying not to be found out.

"Lupiel was once a lieutenant of the Watchman, ordered to bring down the wrath of God on the two cities of sin," the vampire cackled. "If I were to destroy the heart of London, what do you think would happen? Your ineffectual government would find the cause of it. Then, we have anarchist groups across the Channel ready to strike, no? War will reign, and with it chaos amongst the mortal and supernatural alike, order will e destroyed, and once it has, I will step in and restore the balance, with myself, of course, as the ruler of the Black Court."

"And in the resulting chaos, you plan to seize power?" Watson spoke, disbelief evident in his voice. "That is insane. Many will die if a war was to start, and all so you could move up in the Black Court?"

"It is not minor, I grant you," the vampire replied dismissively. "And if they die, what of it? Humans die all the time, while we of the Black Court will remain, as we have, ever since the dawn of human memory."

I clapped a hand over my mouth and began to make a hasty, silent retreat, silently moving until I had stepped out of the free clinic and reached the rendezvous point. As I made my way, another figure came out of the shadows and fell into step beside me.

"Always on short notice," I heard Langtry grumble. "At least it wasn't like New Madrid, stupid earthquake..."

"There are currently zero constables patrolling about thanks to yours truly," McCoy cheerfully announced, fixing together what looked like a gun, a huge pump action shotgun. Nevertheless, I asked what were the strange bullets assembled beside the gun.

"A mix of steel shot and rock salt, which work on weaker vamps. Oh, and Emile just went to get some things." McCoy replied, now polishing a staff that shone a glossy black in the half-light.

I as about to ask what when Father Strauss came into view, lugging a small barrel over his shoulder, dressed in what I thought could be an extremely heavy set of antique knight's armour. How anyone could move in that was quite beyond me, until he moved closer and I saw that the armour was made of steel plates closely woven together such that the plates overlap, forming a sort of light armour that glinted in the half-light.

"My colleague says that he will be praying, and comments that this was the first time anyone asked him to bless a five-gallon drum into holy water," the priest commented as he set the barrel down with a solid thump, and then straightened. "I've also retrieved those bottles and tubes you wanted, Ebenazar."

"Good. Did you get the garlic?" Langtry spoke, opening the drum as Father Strauss handed him the tubes in question, filling the tubes before sealing them with corks and slotting them into a belt with odd loops and pockets which I assume held other odds and ends for magic.

"Sadly, no, but I did relocate our driver," Father Strauss spoke, and I swear that he was smiling slightly.

"Good enough, we'll just have to improvise," McCoy grumbled, loading the gun before he picked up his staff. "Okay, Mr Holmes, please give us information that should probably help us survive this thing."

I bristled but did so accordingly, and so, we formulated a plan that to me still sounded insane, but we did so anyway.

If only all went well.

* * *

The street was silent, silent as a grave, I dare say, as I heard Langtry's cry of '_Castellum!' _before I saw the dull orange glow of fire, and a sort of hum in the air. The urge to leave the carriage was strong, but I waited by it, restraining our spirited carriage as the fire spread faster than natural means, The resulting cries of mortals and quite a few screams too loud to be human from within. As many fled, I saw a glimmer of metal and a flash of black enter the building. A few moments later, the distinct bangs and sounds of guns sounded, much like a few pops here and there, the dull orange glow always increasing in intensity to bright orange, red and yellow, but mostly a guttering shade very much like what I thought Hellfire would be.

And then, as the few mortals with their wits and self-preservation instinct still about them fled into the shadows, more inhuman fast figures began to make their egress, only to either be burnt by more of Langtry's fire, which took on the shape of orange needles as it flew through the air, striking its target alight unerringly, or to be shot down by mine and McCoy's guns, their special shot seeming to work. Then, hell-beasts, if there were indeed such things, ran out, to be set on fire or squashed by mysterious forces that I knew could only be the work of either Langtry or McCoy or Watson.

I fervently hope that Watson never has cause to use that on me. I don't think Scotland Yard could put down 'squashed by mysterious forces' under 'cause of death'. Also, it would, in the words of certain country squires, blow goats if I were to die of such a ridiculous cause of death. The afterlife would be bad enough without my ancestors of years past going on about how I died. Oh, the horror. I could just imagine Mycroft going on about it.

Set the clinic on fire once sunlight approaches. Although the resulting fire would be weakened due to the presence of sunrise (much like the very same reason Watson goes over the door with the paint mixture every day), the result would be sufficient to get aware patients and personnel out of the way. No free clinic provides wards for their patients; at least, none that I am aware of. Also, judging from the words of the wizards, the Black Court had been feeding off of these people, which then confirmed my opinion that the Black Court should burn in hell.

I heard a harsh, alien howl, and the horse neighed in slight panic, followed by several more howls, amongst them the shrill ring of the police whistle as a constable who had just arrived led the evacuation of the surrounding area. The place was a tinderbox, after all, so I really shouldn't be surprised at the ease that the constable carried out his job. Although, if he had paid attention to the flames, he would notice that they did not spread to the surrounding buildings, something which I believe was due to Langtry.

Magic. Previously speaking, I would have dismissed it as mere superstition. Now... I'm not too sure.

Then, I heard someone shouting. Someone I would know, even in my sleep, even if I were near death.

And the flames erupted. Their orange, guttering light flared out against the weak sunlight that came pouring, the smell of rotting eggs harsh and cloying, and it felt a lot like standing next to a volcano. Or standing very close to the metaphorical place with demons and burning sulphur. Whichever comes first.

Then, three figures came stumbling out, melding with the chaos of the fire, no one save me noticing as the figures stumbled to the carriage, two of them holding the third between them. They stumbled into the carriage, and I snapped the reins, driving off towards home.

* * *

Even over the clattering of the hansom's wheels and the horse's hooves upon the London cobblestones, I could hear their conference, mostly concerning Watson's impromptu setting fire to most of the clinic that hadn't already burnt.

"He's a danger, especially with Hellfire," Langtry firmly said. "Who knows how many have died in those flames."

"Artie, you've said it yourself, he's new to all this," McCoy went on tiredly. "Anyway, he only did it because that vampire was going to shoot Emile here. He killed three vampires with that fire alone, and we took care of the remains. Now the remaining concern is Mitton."

"The most dangerous vampire in England is still running around?" Father Strauss commented.

"Make that the _only _vampire in London," McCoy commented. "And now that it's sunrise, he's isolated. And look," he cheerfully said. I did not see what he had gotten, but the sound of disgust from Langtry and Father Strauss was quite enough to convince my curiosity that the nightmares were not worth knowing what did McCoy get.

"We can track him as soon as high noon approaches, when he is weakest," Father Strauss said.

"Weakest but still capable of movement," McCoy pointed out. "Also, he might escape into the Nevernever. It's happened before, you know."

"That would happen at a graveyard, which is not likely. Furthermore, we've established that Mitton needs to secure his power in London. The other Black Court vampires would tear him apart if he tried to return to Eastern Europe," Langtry said harshly. "We kill him...as soon as we secure the doctor in Baker Street. He's exhausted, and Holmes has agents watching the place. Plus, it's Sherlock bloody Holmes's place. He'll be a nutter to try to break in in broad daylight."

Langtry had a point, no matter how disturbing. Although how did Mycroft see fit to deploy agents there, I do not know.

"I never knew that magic could appear in a forty-something old man," McCoy noted. "Maybe we could put him under an apprenticeship when this is over. Or we could send him to an exorcist. That works too."

"The Church would be happy to aid Doctor Watson in exorcising the Fallen," Father Strauss spoke up. I had a vision of Watson spitting out some substances I cared not to name while priests in black robes continued speaking the holy words. It was disturbing, to say the least. "We would also be happy to help the Doctor set aside his power..."

"Like hell you will," Langtry said, an edge to his voice. "He's been given a not modest talent. This certainly isn't that of a hedge magi. In a few more years he could make the White Council, and we're always looking out for such talent. This power isn't something one could quickly set aside, no matter what the Church says."

"Beg your pardon, Emile," McCoy added in, "but if the Doctor tries to set it aside now, the power would probably try to control him, and we end up with a Mordred on our hands. Or maybe even Morgan La Fey."

I do not know what to think of my Watson being compared to the villain of Arthurian legend.

"He has to learn control, or that building débâcle would happen again." Langtry firmly said, indicating the end of the conversation. "This time, in Baker Street."

That very declaration sent shivers up my spine.

* * *

_**The next chapter: Holmes ponders on what to do!**_


	11. Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant

_**In every man's heart there is a devil, but we do not know the man as bad until the devil is roused.**_

_**~JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD, "The Case of Beauvais," Back to God's Country and Other Stories**_

* * *

_**We are proud to announce that lalunaticscribe (this author) has formed a partnership! Without further ado, we introduce the beta-reader and the newest aboard, The Glorious Cheshire Cat! Cheshire, bow! *Insert relevant applause, wolf-whistles, catcalls, etc. here*.**_

* * *

_**Tenth: Hail Emperor, those who are about to die salute you. **_

Watson slept through most of the day, leaving me to fret as to the nature of the torture he was subjected to at the hand of such...monsters. I would not believe them to be anything other than human later, but for now they have kidnapped him, therefore I would at least make such an exception until they are either dead or in a jail cell. Preferably the former. I would have enough time to debate the existence of magic, which frankly I'd rather not know about, later. The very thought of Watson, tied up in the dark, with such malevolent creatures such as the late and very unlamented Matthews newly risen from whatever hell-hole he crawled out of, was quite enough for goose-flesh to form on my hands and neck.

For the better part of the day, I performed a short chemical experiment, tried to open the cellar door (again), debated if rock salt would make a better bullet than lead, and generally almost everything possible to do indoors without disturbing Watson. Occasionally, I would swear that sparks flew off his cane, but that could have been my imagination...couldn't it?

The sun was already hanging low in the sky when the sounds of a stirring man reached my ears, followed by a pronounced shuffled _drag-thump_ seventeen times before I heard Watson's voice: "Good morning, Holmes."

My relief could not have been more obvious as I commented: "It is quarter to seven ...in the evening!"

"What!" he exclaimed in shock, immediately shaken from his stupor. "Oh god, what about my...?"

"I have taken the liberty of informing Bart's that you have been delayed due to sickness. The doctors, the nurses, and quite a few patients all send their regards to 'the nice doctor'," I replied, feeling my face twitch at how Watson, despite having been abducted by beings I would not trust my life to merely half a day ago, would continue to worry about his locum position at St Bart's. It made life seem so much more...peaceful, normal, untouched by violence.

Then, the peace was broken by Mrs Hudson's exclamation of shock which was louder than usual as a series of thumps sounded, the staccato beats precluding the unannounced entry of a very dishevelled Arthur Langtry, covered in some greenish liquid that spattered onto the left side of his suit and on both shoes, I noted. The liquid was as viscous as water, though obviously slightly thicker, much like blood, except for the smell much like...river water?

"What the hell happened to you?" Watson exclaimed, jumping up, cane at the ready.

"Westminster Bridge, tracking vampire through sewers, got a troll sicced on us, blew it up, but lost vampire, now here to wait for ambush by same vampire." Father Strauss supplied as he walked in, covered to a lesser degree by the same dark-green ichor, quite apparent despite his black robe. How did he manage to take on a vampire in those same black robes which by all rights should impede quick movement is beyond me. "Did we miss anything out?"

"Holy water," Watson replied, his face deadpan.

"Dumped the whole barrel around the front and back entrance," Langtry said cheerfully. "McCoy's gone to check on the Yard; they've been compromised. Inspectors Gregson and Hopkins would be facing a few days of amnesia, but nothing more...hopefully. It's difficult to tell with thralls."

"Ah," I said, as if the whole thing made sense to me. "Could you possibly enlighten us concerning our quarry? After all, if we're supposed to be driving a not very sharp piece of wood through the muscle, bone and blood of some thing very much like what we've met last time outside," here, I let my eyes stray pointedly towards the window, "who would obviously not be standing there and allowing us to do so, and instead doing all he can to stop us, I would prefer information that would hopefully help us to survive."

"The good news is that there's only one vampire." Father Strauss supplied. "Considering how long it takes for any to make the full transition, and added that Mitton had had not a single opportunity to feed, he would not be able to...propagate, so to speak. We are also confident that he would stay here instead of, say, running to the South End."

"The bad news is that Mitton has connections with some of London's uglier monsters, if the troll he waylaid us with is any indication," Langtry growled, his hand latching onto a pure white staff streaked with green liquid. "So, we could expect more than one party. And holy water doesn't do anything against faeries."

"Why, I am glad you have mentioned that," Watson dryly stated, the expression on his face indicative of only something he knew, that the rest of us were in the dark about. "It would have been nicer, however, if you could have said so earlier."

Mrs Hudson came in just then, bearing a message from 'a gentleman downstairs who asks for your help'. Thin, cheap paper, ordinary ink, with odd stains from where the writer's hand rested upon the paper, supposedly from the sewers, I guess,and streaked with the very same green ichor that coated Langtry. The most curious thing was the writing.

There was no way I could have stated what this Mitton stated so eloquently in his own way:

_To Whom who reads his note:_

_I know that you possess the coin of Lupiel. I wish to negotiate with you concerning the change of its ownership to me, right now, along the Embankment of the dear Queen, without the presence of the knight or the magelings. Do bring the coin_

_along; I find that negotiations would go so much faster that way._

_Of course, should you disagree, I would indeed be very upset, and would proceed to demonstrate my displeasure at your front entrance. One dead body, I always find, makes for an excellent incentive. If not, two dead bodies help even more. The more there are, the more incentive would be provided, I was always sure of that._

_Yours sincerely,_

_John Mitton._

The scariest thing, to me, was that the writing was flawless, almost passing for a note printed with type if not for the last flourish on the last 'n' that didn't match the others. If there was any example of inhuman handwriting existing on God's green earth, surely this must be it.

"He'll try to drain you," Langtry helpfully supplied when I threw down the note, which I could only assume he read through the thin paper. "He'll drain you of all bodily fluids, grab the coin, and possibly kill everyone nearby just out of spite. The Black Court is vicious that way. Look on the bright side," he added hurriedly upon a glance at Father Strauss, "at least it'll be over quickly."

"Yes, that makes me feel so much better," I sarcastically shot back. "Knowing that if I will die, at least it would be over quickly, and that at least my death would be investigated within walking distance of Scotland Yard headquarters." The beaming smile on his face made me feel that those were the wrong words to say, as were the sense that Mitton chose that place for the very reason of showing us what he thought of the laws of the Crown. "However, what I do not get is why did they not immediately storm in and grab the coin."

"Threshold. There's a sort of...barrier around homes, something that protects its inhabitants from supernatural influences while within," Watson explained doubtfully. "Of course, we don't have such as nice threshold as, say, a house that's been standing for a hundred years or so through a single family's ownership, but our albeit weak threshold, beefed up by the presence of holy water and many amateur wards of varying strength added with the notion of being surrounded by witnesses more than make up for the weak threshold."

"According to what Mr Langtry has told us, this Mitton character would have no qualms about killing an entire street, so why stop here?" I asked, somewhat doubtfully.

Langtry gave a near-silent bark of laughter. "The Black Court are predators. Humans are prey. Nevertheless, when surrounded by prey, the predators would snatch a few here and there under the cover of darkness and disbelief. However, should normal people get even the notion that there is more to the darkness than just shadows, then we'll have another Inquisition on our hands. People see a supernatural conflict going on, they panic, and the next thing is that they'll be burning everything within sight. Ace both, and sleep better at night." There was a hint of bitterness in that tone as he gave us his monologue.

"Well, that is reasonable, in another point of view," I acknowledged.

"The problem now is how to lure Mitton into a trap," Father Strauss mused, thus turning my attention to another question.

"Mr Langtry, you did mention that you had just wired your friend, McCoy, is that correct?" I hesitantly spoke.

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"And Father Strauss, you were supposed to be in Germany, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Therefore_ ...how_ did you get here?" I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.

"Came in here through a Way." I heard the distinct emphasis on 'way', which led me to suspect the legality of this 'way'. Illegal ways were faster, but how to transfer a man from Germany to France, across the Channel, and straight-away to the roof of 221 Baker Street in a matter of _hours_ was beyond any means of transport possible for mankind as of yet.

"Using the one thing you don't believe in, Holmes," Watson acknowledged cheerfully, in answer to my scowl.

"Seeing is believing," I answered, somewhat petulantly.

"Gentlemen, may we please leave aside the debate to attend to the matter at hand," Langtry grumbled, a nervous tic appearing in his brow.

"We have a homicidal vampire, who is after an incredibly powerful coin possessing a fallen angel who allegedly destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. Said coin is buried in..." here I turned to Watson.

"The cellar," Watson helpfully supplied.

"The cellar," I repeated, "and a... shadow of the fallen angel is allegedly possessing Watson, who has shown superb aptitude at spontaneous combustion of certain items of debatable flammability, oddly accompanied by the smell of burning sulphur and a sense of fear from the receiver. Said homicidal monster is threatening to kill several quite innocent Londoners if we do not hand over the coin in question. Our objective is to stop him, and quite likely kill him, if the Shoreditch Stakings are any indication of the measures needed to stop vampires. Did I miss anything out?"

"You're not involved in this conversation," Watson suddenly snapped to no one in particular, only just realising his _faux pas_ in time to look horrified. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What did Lupiel say?" asked a genuinely interested Father Strauss.

"He..she..it said," Watson, now blushing, commented, "that Holmes's summary could do with less words, but all the same applicable, and no, you didn't miss anything out."

He coughed here. "And also...that all my stories have never commented on what a ...gangly...scarecrow...you are, Holmes."

There was no reasonable rebuke to such a topic, therefore, I didn't even try, save to sit there and gape. Much like a goldfish. Yes, I can unashamedly say that I performed, if Watson's word was anything to go by, a flawless fish-in-water impersonation. It is the truth; I have nothing to hide.

I feel extremely chagrined, fallen angel or no.

Thankfully, I was saved from further adding 'goldfish' to my impersonation repertoire as Father Strauss barked in laughter. "Lupiel is brutally honest, if I must say," he commented, coughing in suppressed laughter.

After a while, I laughed as well, and so did Watson. It felt...good to laugh, like there was no such thing as magic, like there was no homicidal monster out for a demon-possessed coin, like Watson and I were sharing a joke, like nothing has changed. In a way, they hadn't.

And for Watson, I would happily kill Mitton and scatter his ashes through the Thames.

* * *

"_It will be at the Victoria Embankment," Father Strauss commented. "Mitton, by current sources, is a patriot, despite being a vampire. Furthermore, it is right next to the Thames river. Easy to dispose of...us."_

"_And close to the water too, where there would be a higher chance of Winterfae,some of the nastiest faeries in existence." Langtry added, pointing to the river on the map. "It has the added advantage of protecting his back, as no Way would lead directly over the Thames river. Too much running water."_

_Later, I would ask exactly what was a Way. Now, I had to concentrate on the threat at hand. _

"_So," I began, "this is what we will do..."_

_There were many things that could go wrong with this plan. We might be killed, or we might succeed, or there might be more than we could handle, or some other circumstance that could send it crashing around our ears. Nevertheless, we must succeed. For the fate of Empire, Queen and Country, if not for our future safety and that of London's. _

* * *

Darkness was cold and eerie as I walked up to the lone figure waiting by the Embankment, out of place amidst the squalid surroundings, facing me. The presence was overwhelming, malicious, and like others of its kind, I had no problem identifying it as a vampire. Even as he was, dressed as a turn-of-the century dandy, in the very latest cravat and black suit from Saville Row, a top hat of good quality, with a band of silk round the rim that glinted orange in the half-light off the river and in what little light lit the Victoria Embankment, part of it hidden in the shadows thrown by the various warehouses by the Embankment.

"Greetings, I am John Mitton," the figure pronounced clearly, making me stop in my tracks. "And you would be Mr Sherlock Holmes, then? The tobacco smell is something that most would not smell of." He gave a theatrical little bow. "Pleasure to meet you."

"The feeling is unfortunately _not_ reciprocated." I replied dryly, suppressing the urge to just turn away and run like the hounds of hell were upon me. "Mr Mitton, I must say, there were certainly more pleasurable places I would rather be right now than by the Queen's Embankment, discussing mild but ineffective pleasantries with your esteemed company. Shall we get down to brass tacks?"

The figure seemed to moved, and before my next breath, he was now standing far closer, with at least three feet between us now, far too close for my liking, such that I could clearly see his cane, the cut of his clothing, and the silk band on his top hat.

If there were such a thing, the figure wearing them was a travesty of anything remotely resembling a man. White, blotched skin with parts of it flaking off by the mouth, by the nostrils, by the corners of its eyes, matched with brittle strands of indeterminately coloured hair broken to a finger's width, framed a gaunt, skeletal face, of which parts had an occasional maggot or two. _Eww._ Even as my eyes wandered to its hands, parts of those broken fingertips, some of his fingers entirely missing them, held the cane in its repellent grip. It could have been a corpse dressed in gentleman's wear, and I for one would have immediately said so. It was its eyes that held me back. They were black, empty, soulless, a nightmare wrapped in human skin.

I now truly understood why the Black Court had been, and had to be, hunted down. Here, before me, was a monster who disregarded all but self, a walking travesty of a human being, something who did not care what it was to be human, would happily kill and torture just to be able to hear the panicked screams and cries and taste the hot blood that flowed in rivers from its victims. Compared to this walking travesty, Matthews was an annoying fly in the ointment. I felt my skin crawling just standing here, and three feet was an entirely insufficient space between us. I think enough space would be directly on the other side of this planet, or preferably dead. Of course, I mean the...thing. Not me. Oh no, I enjoy breathing far too much. Funny how one doesn't appreciate what one has until one meets a monster.

"The coin?" he...it, asked questioningly, one rotting hand with the flesh barely hanging off it stretched out. It took almost all my self control not to recoil from such an appendage.

In a gloved hand, I took it and threw it to him, high, high, up, the sliver glinting off it as it fell back to earth, spinning, until it landed directly into the palm of the vampire's hand.

And then, three things happened.

The vampire screamed: "It's a fake, kill them!"

"Langtry!" I bellowed, hoping against hope that the cavalry was in time.

And then I ran.

* * *

_**I love a cliffhanger. They make my audience hungry for more.**_

_**Fun Fact: In 1890, the headquarters of Scotland Yard was by the Victoria Embankment, overlooking the Thames river. This gives us an idea of how the villain regards the laws of London, attempting to commit several felonies this close to the Met headquarters. **_


	12. Let There be Light

_**In many cases, it is very hard to fix the bounds of Good and Evil, because these part, as Day and Night, which are separated by Twilight.**_

_**~BENJAMIN WHICHCOTE, Moral and Religious Aphorisms**_

* * *

_**Eleventh: Let There Be Light**_

On hindsight, perhaps it was not the wisest thing to dip a fake silver shilling in holy water before handing it over to someone with an allergy to said holy water, as this would only serve to aggravate the potentially dangerous, scratch that, extremely dangerous person who also happens to be a bloodsucking parasitic creature of the night which previously I wouldn't have believed in but now I somewhat do.

On the other hand, I needed to serve as a distraction for the vampire before he realised the ambush. Hence, the silver dipped in holy water.

And thus, my flat-out sprint with a bloodthirsty vampire on my heels, soon accompanied by two big, hulking shadows with a form that would have put London's scariest thug to shame straight away. In a fair fight, I would be the one coming out with a bloody nose in this case. As it turns out, I was losing out in the two-hundred-yard sprint already, and, being over six feet tall, it meant that I have long legs that can cover a lot of ground quickly, hence, either I was out of practice, which was quite unlikely, or Mitton and his ugly, inhuman cronies were much faster than humanly possible. Resisting the urge to scratch off my face the slightly itching salve that allowed me to see those shadows (not that I truly believed it, but I had to humour them somehow), I could remember Langtry saying that the only reasons to run from a Black Court vampire was to:

the inevitable.

into direct sunlight.

up one's shot to aim in lethal areas quickly and preferably survive after shooting.

Option three was reserved for wizards, who could possibly stop, shoot and just might destroy it. It was night-time, hence option two was impossible unless either Watson or Langtry have figured out how to conjure sunlight with magic, hence, option one: delay the inevitable.

Of course, option one can go either way, too, and hence, provided that I reached the ambush point in time, without the ghoulies and long-legged beasties behind me figuring out what was going on, I could potentially survive. If I did not, then I would die. It is nice to know the two clear cut options this plan offered even as I sprinted like my life depended on it. Which it did.

Mitton let out a inhuman scream that would have stopped me in sheer panic had my thought processes not been faster than most. Quite a miracle of nature here; most animals would have run faster. It would have taken a thinking, reasoning creature, say, your average human, to freeze and consider what exactly was that noise, which would result in time wasted and eventually getting caught and thus killed and...eaten? Drunk? No matter the particular lexicon pertaining to the draining of blood from a body for a vampire to feed upon, I didn't care at the moment, I just ran. Despite the apparently cowardly way of attempting to solve the problem, I just saw in my peripheral vision Mitton picking up a large crate that I know, having stubbed my toe on it beforehand, was full of lead, as if it was a bag of feathers and toss it into my direction.

It was fortunate at that time that I chose to turn to the right, or I could have been hit by what felt like, and was if I was not wrong, half a ton of lead. Forget a concussion, I don't think I would have survived. I ran, and ran, all the way up to the dead end. The surrounding walls were about two storeys high, the equally high, four-feet-long brick wall at the end cold and unyielding, and obviously I cannot escape. Unless Mitton somehow manages to smash through the wall without permanently injuring me, or somehow I manage to turn into mist, I cannot escape. I was seemingly trapped.

Perfect. Now to wait for the vampire to come and kill me.

* * *

It is a sobering thought that at that very moment an anthrophage (much more scientific than 'vampire', in my opinion) composed of a mostly rotting corpse is at the moment chasing after me for my blood. I can only hope that Mitton hasn't been in this mode of existence for more than a century, since older anthrophages, according to Langtry, can potentially survive contact with holy water. Older anthrophages are also more intelligent, having survived centuries out of sheer Darwinian necessity. Given that he'd also mentioned that there were other types of anthrophages around, with the Black and White Court being the most dominant in Western Europe, I decided that any information gleaned was best taken with a pinch of salt.

Mitton slammed his right hand into my throat, and distinctly I heard some of my ribs crack from the impact and my spine come slightly closer to breaking point. Without even being exhausted from that merry dance I had just led him on, he snarled, giving off a powerful stench of rotting flesh, only without formaldehyde: "Where is it? Where is the denarius of the Fallen Lupiel? Tell me or I shall throw you to the ogres!"

Behind him, I could see one of the large hulking shades behind him, still lumbering over, somehow seem to perk in interest. I suppressed the shudder that went through my body, but either anthrophages had better senses than most beings in the dark, or Mitton was more perceptive than I thought, for soon his tone changed. "The fun thing about ogres," he purred into my ear, much to my disgust, "is that no matter which side they're on, they enjoy violence, in any flavour you care to name. And, they have absolutely no compunctions on slow torture. Furthermore, they're quite resistant to magic, so any protection that mageling friend of yours, or that bastard Arthur Langtry placed on you, would not affect them as much. Therefore, I would highly recommend you tell me the coin's whereabouts, or face my associates' wrath." One of the hulking figures grunted behind him.

Here was a chance to receive the answer that had been nagging at my conscience for a while. "What makes you think that the coin is still in England?" I asked innocently, blandly, careful not to start eye contact with my...interrogator. The man who has my neck in his hand and could probably snap it in half before I could do anything.

He laughed. "When the Watchman himself remains even when the Knight leaves? Hardly. Wherever the coins go, the Knights would appear sooner or later. It is a matter of figuring out your deceptively simple strategy, Mr Holmes. So then, where is it?"

I shrugged, as much as I could under the given situation. "Why would you think I would know? Even then, why would you think I would tell you?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment as he considered, before replying: "Perhaps I should just let the ogres rough you up as I go for your mageling friend. Ah, torture, torture, I wonder if pulling out fingernails are passé? Guess not." He shrugged, my body swaying precariously in his grasp. "Your friends are not here, Mr Holmes, or I or the ogres would have smelled them beforehand. There is no one here to save you, so I would recommend you make it easier for all concerned parties and just tell us before I drain you dry, give your remains to the ogres, who by the way, love to eat fresh meat, and pay a visit to your friend. What do you say?"

"Lovely weather we're having in London," I smile at his surprised expression. "High possibility of sudden rain."

Then, a cascade of water came from above and drenched all parties concerned, me, Mitton and his big hulking cronies, and I tasted salt and iron before my windpipe was abruptly released and I collapsed onto the cobbles as Mitton's hands flew to his eyes, screaming higher than I believed to be possible, actual grey smoke issuing from between his wasted fingers, which were also smoking. The hulking figures howled, backtracking, their skin actually burning where the iron-filling-laced water had touched it, the flames a bright, cobalt green-blue.

I pushed at the deceptively hard brick wall and it collapsed in a flat slab, allowing me free passage out of the alley on wards, where my cavalry stood waiting, sword-cane out and ready for the anthrophage and hench...men? Ogres? What was the parlance, I didn't know, or care much, because, at that time, I caught sight of Watson's expression. He had on the expression that was one of my least favourites, the one which meant that whoever on the receiving end was going to be killed soon, the preferred shield I like to hide behind. Having been in the military, Watson was better at combat than I, even with a limp. The added accessory of a cane was another advantage he had, and Watson knew a few underhand fighting tricks even I thought were most unsportsmanlike. That, and with that sulphur smell that I just realised came from Watson, paired with the carvings on the cane that were now glowing a hellish scarlet, told me that a supernatural brawl was about to start, and soon.

* * *

From the years 1898 onwards, now that I had thought about it, I had witnessed quite a few brawls, most of the mundane variety, and some of the supernatural kind. The most dangerous ones, I had always felt, was when I had to stand on the sidelines as my Boswell, and very much the other side of the Great Detective which many thought was Holmes but was in fact, Holmes and Watson, defend against a threat which I cannot fathom and possibly never will. Even through my retirement, I was afraid, quite afraid, sometimes, of the dark, and I would, in a heartbeat, give up my memories such that I would never have to see such _things_ that left even a mind jaded as mine shaking and fearful, and then I was a witness, not a participant; a liability in a field where I became completely outclassed. My Watson would have to face these horrors alone in the dark, which was what led to my being by his side during those times, and he being by my side in my dark times. We still had our moments of light, such as my almost-comical reaction to the letter received in 1902 which my erstwhile friend so kindly mentions in the floridly titled _The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire_. Luckily, he glosses over my actual reaction and thus confirms to the supernatural world, most of which, I am disturbed to even mention, seem to subscribe to the _Strand Magazine, _that I very firmly do not believe in fairy tales and whatnot. If only we could publish the astonishingly dangerous tale of the missing wedding ring and our little escapade with _Reine_ _de Winter,_ not to mention the nasty business with the madman wizard the likes of which I have not seen since Moriarty, they might have known better. Alas, those charming little epistles must remain forever either at the bottom of Watson's trunk, or in the grate in ashes, or buried with me in the grave, but never be known lest we be condemned as lunatics for having written the truth.

Nevertheless, I would still consider that fight between Watson and that horror of a walking body Mitton one of the most terrifying I have ever seen, and would proceed to detail it out, seeing as there is no way of explaining why clearly without the circumstances being clear to the reader. Although it was possible to skip this step seeing as I never intended for this to be read, I chose to plough on and write it all down, preferably so that I could throw the entire thing into the grate, Watson tells me that fire has a purifying effect, and thus forget about it all. It is, sadly, something that would not have the luxury of forgetting for a long, long time, something that will always exist at the back of my mind and the forefront of my nightmares and perhaps even into the afterlife as well, if there was such a thing, despite the proven existence of fallen angels. I don't understand God, still. Given enough time, I could probably understand what the demons do, and why, even the anthrophages, even the Fallen, sometimes. However, I don't see how God could see the human race like this and not write the whole thing off again. I fail to understand why God would allow Watson, who had hardly ever hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, who occasionally sympathised even such that criminals reform upon meeting him (I have seen it happen once and would still swear to it), to lose everything near and dear to him. Perhaps it was just my agnosticism.

I saw Mitton's helpers cringe and howl and finally, chopped up as Father Strauss, his sword aglow with bright white light and very much an avenging angel, if angels wore black, made short work of those ugly monsters I saw by the light of his sword, the steel blade causing the ogres to scream and cringe. It seemed that Langtry was right; faeries really don't like iron. In some ways, that was quite an understatement.

Mitton's attention was no longer on me. Yay. His attention was now on Watson. Specifically, Watson's cane.

"You...you've taken up the coin?" Mitton expression was one of shocked surprise, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Good.

"Sadly, no, it's locked up in my safe deposit box," Watson snarled, swinging the cane. I felt a force very much like a rushing train flying just past me, the invisible force, apparently impacting on to Mitton and sending him back. Watson, his limp ever so pronounced, ran closer, his cane still glowing its hellish scarlet.

There was a cry from him, and fire answered, engulfing Mitton in scarlet flames. Another cry, distinctly _"Ignis,"_ came from Watson, and a ball seemingly composed of flame appeared, glowing hellish scarlet like a star, and Watson threw it straight into Mitton's face. Ignoring the howls afresh, Watson took cane, and clubbed Mitton in the midsection with it. There was a flash, and Mitton was sent sprawling four feet on the ground. Resolute, determined, my Watson conjured another ball and pitched it. Still, despite it all, despite that its fingers had been burnt to a few stubs, despite that its face was literally melting from the flames, despite the overwhelming smell of cooked flesh and the clothes burnt to tatters, despite the face being little more than a skull with blank, empty real red eyes staring out, the anthrophage still struggled, rolling over and managing to get to all fours, before it turned to me.

Faster than I would have believed possible, it advanced onto me, scrabbling, and if not for Watson's timely intervention, I would have been drained. As it was, the...thing that was previously Mitton had clamped a very hard hand onto my ankle and was about to bite down had Watson not clubbed it's head aside with his cane. With another flash, the anthrophage's flew to the left for two feet, impacting onto the ground with a sickening crunch of breaking bones.

"And that," Watson spat, advancing onto the feebly moving anthrophage which was now little more than a skeleton with bits of muscle on it, "Was for threatening Holmes."

And then, the sword came down and separated Mitton from his existence. Shivering in a way that had nothing to do with cold, I looked up, refusing to meet those empty eyes, and looked right straight into the eyes of my friend, John Watson.

Then the soul-gaze began.

* * *

Watson had once written on my list of talents that my knowledge of literature was nil, a fact that I vigorously defend. One of the most ridiculous, yet most entrancing stories that I had ever read was Oscar Wilde's _The Happy Prince _(anyone who comments on my choice of reading material will receive their entire life's secrets spread throughout London). I felt that Watson was a lot like the Happy Prince. That was the impression I got upon seeing into his eyes. Watson, who gave and expected nothing. I saw Watson's soul as a statue that had weathered cold Scottish winters, that had stood against the desert winds and the blazing sun and sands of Afghanistan, giving everything on him in return for nothing; against the rot that was evil, I saw him wrapped up in the scarlet threads of murder, threads that I knew I had placed, forcefully reminding me of _A Study in Scarlet_. I saw the Prince then holding a staff, commanding, regal, powerful, and yet, parts of it were charred, burnt, the flames leaving a lingering smell of burning sulphur that continued to spread, the charred areas spreading ever closer to his heart. And behind it all, I saw a shadow flicker, behind the Happy Prince-statue of Watson's soul, a shadow in the shape of a wolf.

The wolf turned to me, its eyes not amber, but a bright, acid green, the pupils slitted and inhuman, cold and evil. I could remember some ridiculous phrase from some dull author about how to be careful as we look into the abyss, as the abyss looks into us. I suddenly had the impression that he had locked eyes with a fallen angel before, as I highly doubt this wolf could be anything else, certainly not a metaphorical creature in Watson's soul. The wolf growled, and suddenly I felt very afraid.

And then, it gave a low, mournful howl, a howl with it's head tossed back, its throat exposed, a song in a wild, primitive instrument that made my skin crawl and my eyes water, my heart thud and my thoughts sympathetic as the wolf sang its lonely, mournful howl in the only way it knew how. Could even a Fallen cry for those who fought over it? I do not know. Could there be sympathy for a devil? Perhaps not. It was an uncomfortably theological question I did not care to answer. The wolf sang on, its beautiful, haunting melody not something I, a mere human, would be able to coax out of any instrument, it was something alive, its howl, its song...it shone of life, like a star, and I knew that never would I be able to play something like it ever again.

As abruptly, the gaze broke, and I could only see Watson's disbelieving expression before he keeled over.

* * *

I guess that Mitton had had more help waiting in the shadows, for Langtry, McCoy or even Father Strauss hadn't come for a long time, and I was beginning to get worried at Watson's state. I had tried to haul Watson up, but despite being shorter than me, Watson made up for his lack of height with muscle and width, so after a moment I gave it up as a bad job and sat there with his head in my lap, my legs outstretched, my slightly damp coat thrown over him and I was wondering about hollering for the nearest beat constable when I heard...whistling?

A young man stepped out of the shadows that seemed to cloak the area, a completely insignificant man if not for the fact that he was smiling slightly as he walked over to us. Despite the incongruity of the act, I could detect no intent to harm from him and thus I said nothing.

"Is he alright?" the man prompted, looking at Watson with some concern. "Emile's dealing with a few impromptu redcaps and he sent me along just in case. The other wizards are attempting to fend off a bugaboo and several kelpies. Given that one of them is in the Senior Council, and the other is Blackstaff McCoy, they should be fine, although help would not be coming for an hour or more. Is John alright?"

"From your words I would presume that you are familiar with Watson, and is quite possibly the contact which allowed Father Strauss to travel through some Way of which nature I am not clear of," I replied. "Who are you?"

"Call me Jack," the man replied, conducting a preliminary examination on Watson. "I work at the book-store which the Doctor frequently patronises. I sold him _Elementary Magic, _along with a few others."

Given that I had searched almost every book-store in London and found not a single copy of said book, not even a purchase receipt, I was not quite ready to take his words at face value. I frowned. "Where?"

"Central London, Picture of a Thousand Words. Small, select, secret." Jack explained, running a hand over Watson's brow. "Whoa, he might be having a fever," he commented, pulling his hand back in shock. I distinctly heard him whisper "I'm sorry," before Jack got up and hauled Watson to the kerb, where Watson was less likely to be run over by a late-night carriage. How he managed to do that when he clearly weighed only about sixty percent of Watson's weight was quite beyond me.

I got up and walked, only stumbling slightly as I followed Jack. The man sighed and looked down at Watson before straightening.

"He'll be thrust into a dark world with this, you do know that?" Jack prompted, looking at me straight in the eye. I stared back at him.

"Most likely, the power would follow him through his life," Jack commented, his eyes now straying to Watson. "He could set it aside, but now it'll be too late. If he doesn't learn to control such power, the power would control him, and then Lupiel would ensnare him. He'll become...one of them. A monster. Just like them."

I swallowed, having a good idea what _them _were referring to.

"I believe in his human spirit, though," Jack commented thoughtfully. "He could've just summoned the coin and used the power to completely obliterate Mitton. The way he didn't smacks at a stronger character than first thought. Perhaps, if there were anyone who could change a fallen angel, it could be him."

I stared, open-mouthed at this strange person. "Who are you?"

He winked as he pivoted on the balls of his feet, lightly walking off. "A guardian, a watchman, someone who watches and works a miracle under cover of the dark, as is me and mine," he calls cheerfully, before vanishing into the shadows.

Behind me, I could hear the slightly muffled calls of a panting Father Strauss, and then, below, I heard he sounds of Watson recovering from his bout of unconsciousness. "H-Holmes?" He mutters, pushing himself up off the ground slowly.

There were many things going through my head. First, what relation did Watson have to that Jack fellow? Surely there was no such thing as coincidence? Surely that wasn't the Watchman Mitton was referring to? And what did that last parting shot mean?

Distantly, I could make out, superimposed against the dark London night sky, a single, glowing star, a lone glimmer against the black, and it made my heart lift, that there is a light even in the dark.

"Welcome back, old fellow." I sighed.

* * *

_**The end is nigh!**_


	13. In the Place of the Parent

_**Many human beings need no supernatural mentoring to commit acts of savagery; some people are devils in their own right, their tell-tale horns having grown inward to facilitate their disguise.**_

_**~DEAN KOONTZ, Odd Thomas**_

* * *

_**Epilogue: In the place of a parent**_

It is three in the morning, so the clock upon the wooden mantelpiece tells me, as I sink in my armchair, wrapped in my mouse-grey dressing gown, staring at the flames that have come to resemble so closely that hellish scarlet...I shook my head, as if dislodging the memories of that sight. I have examined Watson cane, as much as I could at arm's length, and have determined that the power needed to make a cane glow like that would almost require a generator of such magnitude that would be impossible to fit on a slim cane, therefore, he had been channelling magic through it. It must have been exhausting and had taken up vast amounts of energy, if Watson's keeling over was anything to go by. The man in question was in his room, asleep now. I can only suppose that his exhaustion at having worked several miracles of varying degrees of combustion was the only thing that allowed him to achieve such a degree of sleep, for I could not sleep at all, despite the weariness of my body crying out for rest. When I close my eyes, I could see again Matthews standing outside the window, his hand against my throat, the demon-hound of cases past, Mitton and his hulking great big monsters of henchmen, so many old ghosts that assault my sleep, their effect even more potent once I had seen Watson exorcising a ghost, not an experience I've cared to repeat. I envied his deep, untroubled sleep, and I wished him luck at it, as I pondered, weak and weary (it has been a long day, forgive me) on the words Langtry had spoke to me as we rode one of the Diogenes' unobtrusive cabs:

"_He's a danger to any and all who cross his path, and yet he can't be killed; he's got talent, he has hope, he has time. And right now, he's weak and vulnerable to the demon preying on his mind, Mr Holmes. So, you're going to have to support him."_

"_Me?"_

"_Of course you. You live in the same rooms as him, eat at the same table, and you are more observant than most men in London. Who better to keep watch over him than you?"_

"_So, you are asking me watch over Watson...in loco parentis?" The nerve of this man._

"_Think of it as a preventive measure," he shrugged. "After all, if he does slip up, and commits an act of black magic, as a member of the White Council, much less in my position, I would have to kill him. I would rather not kill what seems to be a valuable addition to the Council. Nevertheless, he is a grown man and as a stranger, I cannot control his movements. You, on the other hand, have no such compunctions. Therefore, you should be able to theoretically help him organise some control over his extremely wild evocation. Fire magic, combat magic," Langtry explained immediately. "Doctor Watson has quite a gift for it."_

_The old man's face, lines streaked with age and possibly wisdom, although I am more inclined to think of it as manipulation skill, became more sympathetic. "Think about it. If he gives in to the dark impulses we all harbour in us, what could happen? It is for the good of London as much as for your own safety."_

_I looked at him for a long while. "How long have you lived to gain such skill at manipulating people?" I asked bluntly._

_His face hardened to weathered stone. "For your information, I have lived long enough to remember when America was still a colony of the Empire, I have witnessed first-hand the rise of our empire and the coronation of the current Queen. I have lived for centuries, Mr Holmes, and you would do well to remember that." he whispered ominously, intimidating until Father Strauss coughed discreetly in our direction._

"_Shut up, Artie, you're a manipulative bastard and we all know it," McCoy told him, and, over Langtry's spluttering and Father Strauss's coughing, for the first time in a long while, I laughed._

* * *

Sighing, I now looked at the note that Father Strauss had slipped into my hand before the cab left immediately in the direction of Paddington station for the early train out of London, McCoy and Langtry in tow. It was a commonplace envelope, written in a neat hand, but quickly; the ink had not been given time to dry out.

_221B Baker Street_

_NW1, 6XE_

_London_

_13__th__ June 1899_

_Mr Holmes,_

_I realise that now you are faced with a fork in your path through life. On one hand, you may choose to forget about everything that had ever happened, and leave your friend to face the dark. On the other hand, you may accompany your friend and be faced with all the horrors that you would never have to outside of your occupation. I leave you to make the choice, in the hopes that you would make the correct one._

_Your path is often a dark one. We Knights have our paths in black and white; the world you consider about is steeped in one of shades of grey. I trust that you would not lose your path and fall to the darkness. You would have to seek a moral path even more now, for your friend. He is confused, as all beginning practitioners are. Ebenazar confesses that sometimes, even wizards are prone to fits of depression and straying; just because they know more about things does not mean that they know everything. I trust that you would stop him should he ever stray, although I find that somewhat unlikely; the Doctor is someone hard to find in this changing age. He is truly a worthy friend._

_However, should he have need, I would be there for him._

I shuddered at the implied threat and read on:

_The Watchman Uriel has given you his regard, but I trust that you would remain vigilant in the coming nights and never lose hope. Should you find yourself floundering in the darkness, should you ever find yourself in need of a miracle, remember never to lose hope, and remember that if you were to be gone, at least one man would mourn your passing as he had done before out of the brotherly love you share. Faith is a bit more difficult, but then, I trust that you know who, or what, to place your faith in._

_I believe in coincidence, and thus I am sure that His plan would be made manifest itself in time, time to perhaps retrieve the coin of the Fallen and perhaps, even save the Fallen themselves. Until then, I __trust that you would keep yourself and Doctor Watson on __this__ side of the cellar door._

_No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us. ~1 John 4:12_

_Regards,_

_Father Emile Strauss_

"Quite an unusual way of signing off, don't you think?" I commented to Watson, who was sneaking up behind me.

He sighed, and sank into his chair with a practised ease, wincing only ever so slightly. "Hardly. The man is a priest after all, not exactly a holy warrior."

"I would normally have regarded him as too nice to be true," I sighed, "but it is not so. He is a good man. Not like Langtry anyway. Do you think you could apprentice yourself to the other wizard, McCoy, Watson? I truly dread to face Langtry every single time you begin to play at magic."

"The same magic that left you on the ceiling at one time, Holmes?" He shoots back at me and I fake a wince. "Not likely. McCoy lives in Hog Hollow, Missouri, and only came to London on short notice."

"Watson, we are now faced with the question of how did the man travel across the Atlantic from Missouri to London in a matter of hours," I said, frowning. "Surely he didn't fly."

"He used a Way, I guess," Watson shrugged. "It's...like a way of travelling through the fabric of reality. There are points in the Nevernever, that's the other world, by the way, that are close together in there, but may be physically far apart. It is quite possible to use the Way to go from London in the morning, to Paris in the afternoon, to Chicago and back in the evening and still be able to stop by Rome for tea, according to some...more advanced tomes. However, the Ways are populated by monsters with varying descriptions, so most wouldn't try it. "

Now this was interesting. "Could you manage to go through one of the Ways, Watson? This could just revolutionise transport as we know it! Why..."

"Holmes," Watson was stern now. "We are talking about ways cutting through all manner of climates and terrains, populated by all beings of the supernatural at one point or another. Furthermore, the Way-points change as time passes. Also, time itself passes differently in the Nevernever. Therefore, unless one is in a hurry, one does not travel through the Ways. It is difficult enough to explain how did one get to another country in a matter of hours without factoring in all the added dangers of travelling through the Ways."

We continued to debate the merits of such transport, such until the sun began to rise, and the other world that existed only in the night was chased away with the shadows that flee the sun. Never had I remembered myself being so thankful that the sun would rise and flood the world with light before. Truly, one would not appreciate light, common yet vital energy and comfort that it is, until one has been through the dark.

The jangling of the front bell signalled to us, weak and weary souls, that we might be on to another adventure again, as the bell preluded the entrance of an equally weary Inspector Lestrade.

"Good morning," he greeted, "Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. Are you busy now. Another victim of the Shoreditch Stakings had been found, Mr Holmes. Severe burning followed by combustion this time."

"Ah, that would be the finale," I said. "I would have been present to arrest the blackguard, but he escaped, and currently he is on a boat out of the country." _If he's not already out of the country_, I thought.

"He escaped then?" Lestrade's hands were clenched into fists, aimed either at he imaginary blackguard, or at me, I do not know.

"If you can say it like that...quite," I shrugged, eyeing Watson with a gimlet glare that he replied with a shrug. "Of course, Watson managed to nick him on the left arm, but he escaped despite being grievously wounded. It would be a long time before he would rise again, Lestrade, and by then, we should be ready." He looked quite mollified, if still indignant, at that.

Little did Lestrade know that the victims were all anthrophages, or that the killings were undertaken by various people who proclaim themselves wizards, and oddly enough, deserve the title, or that my Watson, my dear Watson, was one of them. A legerdemain, one of the Wise, a mage. A wizard. And, somewhere in his mind, slept an ancient power, great and terrible.

Before, I had Watson, my ever-trustworthy friend and chronicler, revolver and sword-cane at hand, watching my back in the face of danger.

Now, I had Watson, friend and chronicler whom I would trust with my life, revolver, sword-cane, and the mysterious forces that he command, watching my back.

I am Sherlock Holmes, the public, detecting, logical half of the Great Detective, and behind me is John Watson, the secret, emotional half of our partnership.

Against us, those that hide in shadows, be they criminal or supernatural, will not escape justice.

* * *

_**So ends Sympathy for the Devil, Book One of **_**The Watson Chronicles**_**.**_

_**Don't worry, we'll be setting up Book Two shortly!**_

_**Thanks to The Glorious Cheshire Cat for beta-ing this, and to Werepanther33 for reviewing.**_

_**Also, further thanks to Werepanther33 and Anhk d'Aiath for placing this story among their favourites!**_

_**Look out for Book Two of The Watson Chronicles: **_**Without Beginning, Without End.**

* * *

_**The following is a scene as to Holmes's real reaction to the letter in **_**The Adventure of ****the Sussex Vampire, **_**it is written in narrative**_**:**

* * *

The sound of spluttering and the sight of black coffee all over the breakfast table at 221B Baker Street was the first thing that alerted Watson that his brilliant, genius detective flatmate had spat coffee all over his latest correspondence.

The second thing was that Holmes had gone pale. Or, more accurately, that coffee was dripping from his chin and the usually neat Holmes did not notice the coffee, which was made all the more unusual by the fact that Holmes was not one to waste good coffee; his caffeine intake was legendary even to the common London man. Sometimes, Watson suspected that if allowed, Holmes would die of caffeine overdose from drinking too much coffee in the space of twenty-four hours. Of course, this effect was brought about the one time Holmes accidentally drank the bottle off his table, but frankly that was not the point.

"I say, old chap," Holmes began, "pack the garlic and holy water. It appears that we have a anthrophage in Sussex."

Watson was beginning to be alarmed. Not at the fact that there was a vampire in Sussex. "Holmes, there has been no vampire sightings since we killed the last scourge in London," Watson pointed out. "Furthermore, this is a island, and thus not suitable for vampires to inhabit, especially after the publication of _Dracula_. Also, unless you were referring to those of the other Courts, there is no Black Court within the United Kingdom, due to the more zealous of...us."

"Hardly," Holmes replied, handing Watson the letter in question. It read:

46, Old Jewry,

Nov. 19th

_Re_ Vampires

Sir:

Our client, Mr Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm specialises entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes upon our purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter upon you. We have not forgotten your successful action in the case of the _Matilda Briggs._

We are, sir,

Faithfully yours,

Morrison, Morrison, & Dodd

per E.J.C.

It was only upon reading the accompanying note and Watson's pointing out several discrepancies that proved Mrs Ferguson was a) not a vampire, either Red, Black or White, b) Holmes, stop packing the garlic, it has no effect on Red Court, and c) Fine, I'll come along with the cane.

And from there, as we know, is history.

* * *

_**Conclusione della storia.**_


End file.
